Dear Virginia (The Four Month Letter)

I have been writing Virginia letters ever since about a week after we lost her.  I wrote furiously during that first few weeks, as every moment and smell and the feel of her little body in my arms was so fresh in my head.  I was (and still am) so worried that if I didn't get it all written down right away, somehow I'd forget.  Memories are all I have, and once those start to fade, there is very little left to legitimize her existence here.  I think a lot about aging and the toll that getting older takes on our minds and memories.  It hits very close to home with me because of a family member who's struggling with dementia.  Although it's likely still many, many years off for me, I dread the time when my brain reaches the point where my memories fade and the black hole of nothingness takes over.  So many incredible individuals leave this world with their mind gone, and their body but a frail, sad shell of what it once was.  I've always been of the mindset that our body is nothing but a capsule.  It's exposed to the elements, the weather, and, if we're lucky, many, many years of hard use and even abuse.  But the mind is something different altogether.  If our mind starts to go, what do all of the memories we've made even mean?  What does any of this mean?  These are the kinds of philosophical questions I ponder when I lie awake at night. 

But I digress.  What I was wanting to convey is that I've almost filled up an entire notebook of feelings and thoughts over the last 4+ months.  I've written several letters to Virginia, most of which are far too personal for me to share here.  However, as the time between journal entries and letters becomes fewer and farther between, I decided it was time to share this sentiment with you all, as this provides a little more insight into what my life looks like now that some time has passed and we've started to integrate Virginia's loss into our "new normal".   


Dear Virginia,

It's hard to believe that we've survived four months, including Halloween and Thanksgiving, without you.  Halloween was particularly difficult.  The holiday is such a paradox, somehow merging two seemingly opposite themes.  Death and celebration.  All things scary, gory horrific.  And yet we teach kids that this is also a time to dress up and collect candy.  It's such a strange, conflicting holiday.  The mix of emotions I felt that day was confusing as well.  Sadness, anger, anticipation, nervousness, anxiety, the list goes on and on.  We attempted to get away from the holiday hoopla by going out to dinner and getting out of our very family-oriented neighborhood for a few hours.  But even at the restaurants, we couldn't escape the families and kids and excitement.  Right next to us, a family was seated with a toddler all dressed up.  Although your dad and I never discussed it, I know we were both thinking the same thing.  We were thinking about you.  What would we have dressed you up as?  What would you want to be when you were old enough to pick out your own costume?  It's so difficult knowing that we have so many more holidays without you ahead of us.  These questions about the "what-if's" and the "could-have-been's" will always go unanswered. 

Thanksgiving brought with it less emotional confusion.  I suspect this is because this holiday is slightly less children-centered.  We traveled to Montana to spend the holiday with Mommy's family.  It was a hard day.  A sad day.  The only bright spot in my day came when I was able to sit down and talk with your Great Grandma Ginny (your namesake!).  Mommy's family did a great job of talking with us, supporting us, letting us know that they miss you too.  But the day just felt depressing.  The feelings of glaring emptiness were obvious among most of the extended family.  I struggled with finding anything to be thankful for this year because between losing you and all of the other struggles our families have faced, this was not a year of happiness and celebration.  2012 has been the year of heartache and struggles. 

We are headed to Jamaica in less than one week for Christmas.  We needed to do something different this year.  I think your dad and I both fully understand that we cannot run away from all of this, from our feelings about being a family of three with just the two of us.  But we need to not feel obligated to do the usual Christmas things this year.  We need to not have to pretend to be ok about facing this huge milestone without you.  We are not ok.  The fact that you're not here is not ok.  And having to put on a happy face and gut through a traditional Christmas would not be good for us or anyone else we'd be spending time with on Christmas.  We are getting away this year for us, to remember you in a way that honors the missing piece in our lives.  Participating in a celebration similar to years past feels too much like pretending you never existed. 

Today marks 18 weeks without you.  I cannot fathom how we've gotten to this point.  Much of this journey has felt like a blur.  We have somehow continued to put one foot in front of the other to get through each day.  At times, I've allowed myself to crumble, to feel the heaviness of each step, how painful moving forward without you can be (some days, I've allowed that feeling to settle in, and I stopped trying to fight it).  Time always keeps ticking along.  Seconds have turned into minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, then weeks.  Soon we will be marking the time in months.  Eventually, we will mark the time in years.  But regardless of how long we've been without you, we will always, ALWAYS carry you with us. 

Mommy loves you, Sweet Virginia.