Lost in The Hads, pt 2
With still two weeks until the start of school, the kids and I headed to my parent’s house in North Carolina this week for some extended beach and pool time. Even though I didn’t grow up in this house, (my parents retired here ten years ago) it’s hard not to feel reminiscent. Memories persist reawakened by the abundance of framed photos adorning the shelves and walls.
And then there is the fact that, unlike our home in New Jersey, Adelaide WAS here. Not just among our things, but among these rooms. She giggled with my brother on the couch, lounged at the pool in her floaties, and was resuscitated on the floor of their office. This all got me thinking about a blog post I wrote in July 2021, less than two years after Adelaide’s passing: Lost in the Hads.
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It’s hot - like sitting still and you’re still sweating hot. The pool water reflects the sky which is the exact same color of blue as the crayon named after it. Children laugh and splash, bug-eyed with ill-fitting goggles. Parents and grandparents relax in nearby chairs or look on with their feet dangling in the water. Others are hovering, all depending on the age and swim ability of their miniature dependents.
A little girl in a bright pink Minnie Mouse swimsuit splashes in the shallow water in front of me. She looks to be about five years old - the same age as my daughter - if she were alive.
My daughter played in this pool too. I had stuffed her steroid-injected sausage-legs into the holes of a baby float. Unable to support her weight above the water, she had tilted backward as if she were lounging at a spa. All that appeared to be missing was cool cucumber slices over her eyes and a flavor infused water in hand. Of course, her positioning was not by choice, and she was never able to hold a cup or swim independently.
But still, I had a daughter.
And then I remind myself that I have a son.
A son that is playing in this same pool, splashing with his own bug-eyed goggles.
Long before Adelaide’s status went from have to had, I struggled with her presence, or lack-there-of, in these settings. I was sitting at Jackson’s dance recital, waiting for his hip-hop number while watching the three year-old ballerinas in their bubble-gum pink tutus.
Point, touch, plié. The instructor guided the girls through the routine from the floor in front of the stage. All of their wide eyes glued to her for her next exaggerated movement.
Tears uncontrollably poured from my eyes as my three year-old daughter sat sleeping in the stroller next to me, her emergency medical bag hanging off the handle.
Miguel took my hand in his.
“We do have a child performing in this recital.” He reminds me.
“I know.” I said, quickly pulling my hand away to wipe away the tears that won’t seem to stop. I have a child that will be on that stage, so why am I focusing on the one who isn’t?
At that time, my daughter was still a have - but my dreams for her were already becoming hads.
Peeling my eyes from Little Pink Swimsuit I turn to my phone for distraction. However, now even the complicated life I once cursed receives the have/had treatment. Scrolling and swiping, liking and commenting, I am able to relate to the stories and posts of caregivers in the thick of failed treatments and frequent hospitalizations, but my shared experiences are now also relegated to The Hads.
I had to care for my daughter with epilepsy.
I had to fight for her quality of life.
Never having to witness my child have a seizure again should be a good thing. But when you are lost in The Hads, the lines between relief, resentment and remembrance can become blurred.
Little Pink Swimsuit unintentionally splashes in my direction. For a moment, I imagine she is Adelaide, jumping, laughing and splashing. I smile. Then behind her I see my Jackson coming up for air after successfully retrieving an electric green diving ring.
You have a son. A healthy, happy, and present son. With healthy, happy and present dreams.
My Have.
The Hads begin to thin.
I get up from my lounge chair and go to him in the water.
“How about you close your eyes and I’ll throw the ring for you and then you have to find it?”
“Ok!” He says before dunking his head under the sky blue water to hide his eyes.
I throw the ring into the pool.
I have a son.
… But I also had a daughter.
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I now spend less time in The Hads than I did several years ago - actually, now that I think about it, I’m not sure that’s true. It’s not that my visits are less frequent, I’m not sure that they are even that much less painful. The difference is that I no longer get lost there. After years of practice, I am better at visiting and then finding my way back to the here and now. The Hads is now a touchstone, a place to remember, to mourn, and to maintain perspective. And when it’s time to go I follow my personal breadcrumb trail back to Jackson and Anessa who are waiting for me on the other side.
For more thoughts and stories like this one, please consider purchasing my book, Normal Broken: The Grief Companion For When It’s Time to Heal But You’re Not Sure You Want To. Available for pre-order now everywhere books are sold!
Image description: A two-picture collage, on the left, is a five-year-old Jackson hugging a nearly two-year-old Adelaide. They are both smiling and sitting on a yellow, blue, and white striped couch. In the picture on the right, Jackson is 11 and Anessa is 4 and a half. They are both smiling, (though Anessa's face is covered by a strawberry sticker) and they are sitting on the same couch.
