The One Truth | Diary of a Grieving Mother

It’s been six weeks since I’ve shared anything here. I never stopped writing. I just wasn’t sure I wanted anyone else to read it.

Note from Mary-Jo:

Some parts of grief are easier to share than others. Over the last two months, I wrote through rage, bargaining, exhaustion, and truths I wasn't ready to put out into the world.

This one, I think I am.

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It’s been a while since I posted.

The last two months were harder than I anticipated.

I’ve written a lot, most of it not necessarily appropriate for sharing. There was a lot of rage I didn’t know where to put, so I wrote about it. A lot of bargaining with God, the universe, anyone who could hear me.

And in the end, once the anniversary of losing Aidan had passed, despite how hard I fought its inevitability, I realized quite a few truths I hadn’t seen prior to it.

There was one truth that hit like a sledgehammer.

I could finally see something I hadn’t understood while I was living it.

I hadn’t just been keeping busy, or living the way Aidan might want me to.

Pushing hard. Not giving up.

I had been working toward something.

There was no part of my rational mind that believed building a deck or moving a load of stone would somehow bring my child home. I knew what had happened to Aidan.

I’d been there.

I’d held his hand.

I’d kissed his face.

I’d watched the numbers fall.

I knew that truth.

But apparently there was another part of me that hadn’t gotten the message. Or maybe it had, and I simply refused to accept the terms.

I had bargained with God in the hospital.

Take me. Spare him. If You save him, I’ll do whatever You want.

I think somewhere inside me, the bargaining continued.

It just changed.

Okay. If You take him, I’ll endure this.

I’ll get up every morning and keep moving. I’ll take care of people. I’ll work. I’ll write. I’ll finish things. I’ll cry and scream and pray and somehow keep going even when every part of me wants to collapse.

I’ll be strong.

I’ll suffer.

And when I’ve suffered enough, You’ll give him back.

Right?

But grief apparently didn’t care what I knew.

For an entire year, underneath every goal I’d consciously made, there had been another one I couldn’t see.

Aidan.

He was the goal.

But when the one-year anniversary passed, nothing changed. Once that sunk in, everything inside me stopped.

My energy, gone.

My drive to complete goals, gone.

I felt a tiredness I’d never felt before.

So, what did I do?

I went to visit my sister in Ohio.

Halfway there, it dawned on me I’d done the same thing this time last year. I couldn’t take the incessant grief, so I took my pain with me to visit my family up north.

This time was different.

Last year, the memories I found in every corner up there were brutal punches.

This time, I was able to savor them a little more. In my mind I could see the kids playing with their cousins or making a mess on the table with projects. The memories brought tears, but not devastation.

What I didn't expect was what happened the day before I left.

We went to one of my niece Adeline’s volleyball games.

All these nine-year-old girls were out there laughing and playing. It was fun to watch.

One of the girls on Adeline’s team caught my eye.

At first, it was her sunlight-red hair that looked just like Aidan’s. She was so tiny, freckles on her nose, and acted so silly I couldn’t get over the comparison.

I leaned over to my sister and mentioned just how much she reminded me of him.

That’s when she told me this little girl had received a heart transplant as a baby.

Everything in me stopped.

The air in my lungs held.

I saw this little redheaded girl in a completely different light.

Before everything, I would’ve thought, Oh my goodness, that’s incredible. What a strong little girl, thriving out there.

I'd think about the miracle of her life.

But now I see all of it.

Both sides.

I was on the other side.

The mother who lost her child so someone else could live.

And here in front of me was the most beautiful life, filled with joy and strength.

Despite how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop the tears. I had to excuse myself.

Standing outside in the rain, crying, I knew I needed to pull it together for my niece.

So I went back in.

I sat down.

I waved at Adeline.

But my eyes kept drifting back to this little girl.

And that’s when I noticed it.

Her jersey.

Dark blue.

Aidan’s jersey his senior year of high school was dark blue.

And it had the number three on it.

Hers had the number three.

Can that many coincidences occur at once?

I couldn’t stop the tears now.

I leaned over to my sister and told her about the jersey as tears pooled in her eyes.

Aidan, Macie, and I used to joke about their future children.

A little redheaded girl with a firecracker attitude.

And there she was.

This little redheaded girl.

Full of life.

Wearing dark blue.

Number three.

The granddaughter I always imagined.

A future Aidan would never see.

But if ever there was a sign you could pull from coincidence...

This was one.

—Mary-Jo

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From the pages of Diary of a Grieving Mother