Appropriate and Proportionate

When I talk about wanting to die with Lizzy or to be committed to a mental health institution for the rest of my life, I believe these are appropriate responses to her death. When I say “appropriate,” I both shock and scare the people around me, who then wonder if I am spiraling out of control.

I have been spiraling for six weeks, and I am no longer sure what “control” means or should mean. How do you not spiral when you suddenly lose your two-year old? And what am I supposed to be controlling here? People have spent plenty of time telling me I cannot control life and death. So am I supposed to control grief? Or is the word “control” being used to indicate those around me controlling my mental state?

I use the word “appropriate” because it shares a root with the word “proportionate.” I believe that dying myself or being committed to a mental institution is an appropriate response to Lizzy’s death because it is proportionate to the gravity, sacredness, and irreplaceability of what has been lost.

Lizzy was the purity of what human life is meant to be: pure joy, pure light, pure wonder, curiosity, excitement–and most especially, pure love. Everything about Lizzy was the purity of total, bountiful, and superabundant gift. Every second of her life was a gift and she lived it that way. The love that she effused was constant, and her presence in the world was full and radiant. She brought light and joy to all who knew her, and I believe the world is less for her absence from it.

Aside from all of these things, Lizzy had just turned two years old. She was absolutely innocent, with no sins, having never done anything to hurt or manipulate anyone. She had her whole life in front of her. She was two years old. She was innocent.

From a more selfish perspective, I didn’t just lose a beautiful, innocent, giving, and loving toddler, but I lost a human soul with whom I had a deeper connection than anyone else in my life, including my husband. I simply loved her more deeply than I have loved anyone and she loved me more deeply than she loved anyone else. The relationship that Lizzy and I had, the amount and depth with which we loved one another, was truly profound and remains utterly irreplaceable. Lizzy and I spent nearly every minute of her short life together, and in that time, the bond that we forged, the love that we enjoyed, the beauty that we experienced is beyond expression.

So when I refer to the “gravity” of what has been lost, this is what I mean. What was lost is so utterly precious, so pure, so innocent, so beautiful, and so full of love, that my death or my brain being perpetually and endlessly broken, are responses that are proportionate to what has been lost.

But then there is Cecilia. From the time Lizzy died, I have been repeating to myself that Cecilia’s life is not less precious than Lizzy’s was just because I don’t yet know her as well. I keep repeating this to myself, and I acknowledge that my pregnancy and now her presence here is a compelling enough reason to stay alive and not be institutionalized.

Lizzy is gone, but this does not mean that Cecilia is not here.

Lizzy no longer needs me, but in every moment, Cecilia is communicating her need for me.

The relationship that Lizzy and I had is irreplaceable, but this does not mean that my relationship with Cecilia will not be a different kind of irreplaceable.

As surely as I believe that my death would be a proportionate response to Lizzy’s death, I believe that Cecilia’s life is a proportionately grave reason to stay alive and to attempt to reclaim my mind.

Despite this, I am equally sure that my needing to prioritize and focus on Cecilia as my lifeline will not and cannot eliminate the pervasive and inescapable presence of Lizzy and grief in my mind, body, and soul.

Because this is it. This is my new state of being. This is my new life. Being suspended between my dead and living daughters. And whatsoever is left of me in this new state of being remains to be seen.