I have the privilege and honor to go to Massachusetts the beginning of November to share my story. After Jesse and Bella died, it became my mission and passion to work to prevent tragedies like mine.  Over the years that has also transformed to support people after theirs. 

I have an hour long keynote in the morning, and am realizing, wow, an hour is a long time!  Which is great, because usually I end up having to cut so much of my talks out. As I was writing, I wanted to share a story of something that happened not too long after they died. It was when my phone died with the last month of pictures of Bella on it.  I of course did not get a chance to back them up and they are still gone to this day. I was trying to remember the details of that day and reached out to my sister.

You see, she doesn’t realize it, but she is up for sainthood. Jesse and Bella died on Thursday May 8 and she dropped her life and came to be with me for three weeks to help me pick up the pieces of my shattered life. She arrived on Sunday, which was Mothers Day. It is not like she was waiting around eating bon bons (which is our secret joke when we are actually not being lazy, but wishing we were). She has three very busy kids, is self employed, and runs her household like a drill sergeant (in a good way, efficiently). We have worked very hard at our relationship, have had ups and downs, the downs mostly becuase of our mom doing her best subconsciously driving us apart, and are very close. She arrived out of no where (one of the many details I never did figure out or ask) and hugged me as if she was not going to let me go.

Over the following three weeks, she helped me with all the details that needed to get done, pack up and clean my old house, and look for a new one. She helped me with Raffi, helped make phone calls I didn’t even know that I needed to. She helped with things I still don’t know about to this day. I don’t know a lot, but do know that I would not have made it without her. One thing she did do was a running journal of stuff.  She sent out these updates to friends and family to keep them apprised of what was happening and how I was doing. I knew it existed, but had never read any of it.

In writing that story for my talk, I reached out and said, do you remember that day?  She said yes, of course I do, I will never forget it. I asked for more details and she sent me the update for that day.

I read that Saturday morning and my heart stopped for a beat or two, chest constricted, and when my heart started beating again, it did its thump thump thump trying to escape my chest in a panicky kind of way. I remember that day, but it is if I am looking through fucked up rose colored glasses sometimes. The fucked up part is that the reality during that time was fucked up. I remember, but I forget. I forget, because that is the sanest thing my brain could do to cope and not break.

I am so grateful she kept track and wrote it all down. And I won’t lie, after reading that one page, I am terrified to read the rest. I will. After I settle in the new house, get a new desk, and sit down and actually start writing my book, I will start with reading her notes from that time. I will have the rose colored glasses that my brain protected me with ripped off. It’ll be hard, there is no doubt about it. But I also know I have the strength to. If I have the strength to survive what I have, and despite my doubts that I would be happy again, gain that, I can read through, gain the insight and objective observation of someone who loved and supported (and still does!) through the worst thing one can experience and share my story.