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Monthly Archives: April 2010

If I were given a choice now to live what I lived with Zev all over again or to live a life without experiencing motherhood, I would do it all again. In a heartbeat.

Never would I trade the deep love and connection that we share. The tears, and the laughter, the joys of learning and teaching. The good night kisses and the warm hugs.

I know that I am complete and whole for having been given the opportunity to be Zev’s Mom.

Yes, I am now broken and anguished, but I am also filled to overflowing with compassion, love, and joyous memories which I carry with me always.

And some might question and wonder that I would choose again the pain of separation, the agony of longing, this constant ache in my heart and the physical absence of my darling girl. Yet if I cannot/could not have what I always wanted and still dream about — to raise her to adulthood and be there as she emerges into the world as a woman, starting the cycle anew with children of her own — I would much rather have eight years of pure bliss than none.


There is such great probability for injury, catastrophe, and death in this world. And our safety is never guaranteed. It is but an illusion.

Being a good parent includes making choices in the best interest of your child’s safety and well being…

Closely supervising young ones…
Properly using car seats, seat belts, driving safely…
Caution with regard to dangerous animals (and people)…
Fire drills, educating and preparing for potential disaster…
Immunizations and doctor visits…

So many things we did right, and yet … she is dead.

I have swiftly and painfully learned this lesson: we have no control. This, the ultimate bitter truth.

I write to Zev often, and I keep those letters close to my heart, rarely sharing them with the world. Somehow there is a sacredness in the words being only for her and I. Yet, in the interest of maintaining transparency in my grief, I have decided to open myself up even further and post a recent letter here.

March 26, 2010

Dear Zev,

My heart aches for you, my arms long to hold you. I feel so very lost. Your physical absence creates a gigantic void in my everyday life.

I just returned from a walk which I spent mostly in tears. Everything is blooming and budding and the air is crisp and clean. Those things are all painful reminders of you and my mind plays over and over the walks we took together, holding hands, talking and laughing, picking flowers, basking in the beauty of our natural surroundings.

Lauren comes home from Europe tonight and I am excited to hear about his adventures, but a piece of me deep down is upset that he is returning and yet you cannot.

I continue to work on strengthening my spiritual groundwork, as a means to finding an anchor in this sea of anguish. I don’t mind the pain, if only I had a way to communicate with you…to know all the way through to my core that you are happy and free, safe and sound. This is one of the most difficult pieces of the journey for me – I am your mother, your caretaker, your protector, and yet you are not here for me to hold and care for. And, of course, the worst of it is the knowledge that I was not able to keep you safe and alive. I fight the guilt monster often, and thankfully, most days I win.

Until the day that I die, and my spirit is set free, I will long for you. I will never stop loving you, talking to you, sharing your greatness with the world. I strive to honor you in all that I do.

Loving you from this body that holds me,