July 4, 2018

“Although we know that after such a loss the acute state of mourning will subside, we also know we shall remain inconsolable and will never find a substitute. No matter what may fill the gap, even if it be filled completely, it nevertheless remains something else. And actually that is how it should be. It is the only way of perpetuating that love which we do not want to relinquish.” – Letter from Sigmund Freud to Ludwig Binswanger, April 11, 1929

I have not been writing as often because the last two weeks have been particularly bad. I knew that July 4 of this year would be unbearable, dominantly because of what it was last year.

Last year, I woke to Lizzy, nearly 16 months old, irrepressible and adorable. We dressed for the fourth of July: me in a navy, nautical-themed romper with nails painted red and white, Lizzy in a toddler-sized American flag dress. I braided my hair in a crown and put a white bow headband on her still mostly-bald head, her fine blonde hair underneath shining and silky. As a family, we had breakfast and packed the picnic basket before driving an hour and a half south to go my family’s Chesapeake Bay beach club in southern MD.

My grandparents were charter members of this simple, old-school beach club. Both my mother and her siblings and my sisters and I grew up during the summers on the Bay, and therefore it was one of my greatest delights to share it with my own little girl. When we got there, we stopped in to see the professional-grade diorama that my grandfather had constructed of the Beach club property and the plans for its eventual expansion (which still hasn’t happened yet). We then walked down the long boardwalk/pier to the beach, Lizzy’s hand in mine, and my husband set up the umbrella. We made camp and changed into bathing suits. I then put Lizzy in her baby raft/floatie and we spent a blissful few hours lounging in the warm water with our happy, warm baby in her navy swimsuit with little white whales on it and her white sun bonnet with embroidered navy anchors.

We spent the remainder of the day eating and following Lizzy on her explorations on the beach and in the water, around the Point. We followed about five feet behind as she toddled her way tirelessly along shore, gentle waves lapping against her bare feet. Lizzy loved the water and took such delight in having a seemingly endless beach expanse to explore. She paddled and stomped and splashed. She picked up stones smoothed by the tide and tiny, conical seashells. Eventually, my husband and I even sat down on a fallen tree trunk to watch her, since we were growing tired and she was tireless.

But as twilight approached and they started to launch fireworks across the bay, even my tireless baby fell asleep, exhausted, in my arms. She slept all the way home and lay peacefully curled against me all night, after what was, very nearly, a perfect day.

This past winter, my parents bought a bay house near the same beach club where we took Lizzy last July. Cecilia and I have been spending a lot of time down here, in the peace and quiet of nature and the water. In the same place as I was this time last year, it is impossible not to remember–so vividly–how happy I was.

On the fourth of July this year, there were many people in kayaks and paddle-boards, drinking beer, eating fried chicken, swimming in their American flag bikinis, and watching, mesmerized, as fireworks lit the sky. But, like the ghost I am, I watched by the sidelines, unable to accept, unable to move forward, and unable to celebrate.

This year, I woke to Cecilia, not Lizzy. And for every day of Cecilia’s life, I have woken to my living infant and the gut-wrenching memory of the loss of Lizzy. They stand side by side, inseparable. As much joy as Cecilia brings me, her waking coos a chorus to the sunlight that streams in our window, there is also the omnipresent weight of grief coloring my mornings.

Lizzy is gone, and my husband and I are separated. On the fourth of July last year, Cecilia had not even been conceived. It is impossible not to reflect upon how drastically my life has changed in the span of a year. And, this year, the word “reflect” more nearly has the meaning of being totally crushed by what I’ve lost.

But, as I’ve said many times, there is no going back. There is only the endless trudge, learning to carry the weight that is now inseparable from who I am. There is missing Lizzy with every breath. There is mourning the loss of the potential, alternate life my husband and I could have had together with our two girls.

And there, too, is the sound of the water, lapping rhythmically against the shore, lulling Cecilia to sleep. There are the cardinals flitting from tree to tree, the lime-green lichen growing against the fallen trunks, and the enormous frog that hops across my path at twilight. There is the brightening sky before a lightening storm, the crash of the bay in the distance, and the skitter and patter of the rain before it becomes a torrent. There are the mimosa trees blowing their pink-tinged blossoms into the bay, the rich pungency of the wild honeysuckle in the forest, and the she-crab that smiles at Cecilia, raising her lipsticked claws in a brief farewell. And there are my walks with Cecilia, a daily ritual and purgation, where we wander past hydrangeas and sea pines and osprey nests, aimless but strengthening, until the presence of Lizzy becomes so necessary, so desired, and so present that it is as though I can feel her walking next to us, her little hand in mine. And–just for a moment–I grasp peace.