The Gift of Painful Memories
About a month ago a new family moved into the apartment across the hallway from mine. I’ve never seen them, and I haven’t made the effort to introduce myself (strangers knocking at the door aren’t typically well-received these days). However, I do know they have a young daughter, likely between 1 and 2 years old. I know this because I often hear her crying. Every kiddo is different, so of course I can’t perfectly interpret her tears, but those innocent wails make their way across the hallway, through a couple doors, and into my living room quite frequently. The tears are reminiscent of teething, perhaps poor sleep or her first sad dreams. I suspect this because they sound exactly like Madi’s.
If you’ve read my past blogs you know a bit about my story of divorce and the loss of my daughter. Despite raising Madi as my own, my ex refuses to let me see her. My daughter lives 3 miles away, and I’m never going to see her again.
I think of Madi every day. The days I hear my new, little neighbor are the hardest. I have very little tangible reminders of Madi, because they are, and will continue to be, triggering. I saved all ~3,000 pictures and videos taken over the 2.5 years of being her daddy to an external hard drive, stored safely in a place not easily accessible. Her drawings, cards, and gifts are stored there too. I hope one day I don’t have to keep those memories so hidden, but for now, they sit waiting for that day.
But the soft cries of the little girl across the hall cannot be avoided. On these days, I cry. A lot. I remember the sleepless nights (though admittedly, my ex did all the work - she was very protective against anyone but her caring for Madi in those moments), the skinned knees, the new teeth, even the loud, startling noises, all resulting in that same, innocent cry.
I’m tempted to numb the pain, to drown out the sound with louder ones. But lately I’ve seen this as an opportunity to remember the gift of Madi. I long to be her daddy still, and the desire to be angry wells up. But with great effort I let go of the anger, choosing to remember Madi and the amazing 2.5 years we had together. I remember the school mornings, looking for the squirrel that frequented the giant ash tree we had in our front yard. We named her Maria, and we called for her every morning together, Madi in my arms, hoping to catch a glimpse of the jittery little animal. I remember racing leaves and little flowers down the gutter when our neighbors had their sprinklers on at just the right moment. I smile as I think about racing her back to the garage when Katy was ready to take her to school. I laugh as I recall having a pool noodle sword fight in the middle of Target, part of what would turn out to be our last Daddy-Daughter day together. And then I tear up again, realizing some of the details of those wonderful memories are beginning to fade.
I could turn to anger. I could write a seething blog about the injustice of the situation. I could air dirty laundry. I could scream. i could get high. I could numb, avoid, or rage.
Instead, I feel these moments. I feel them as completely as I know how to do. Because, the reality is, these moments of deep grief are a gift. They’re not for anger and bitterness. They’re for that dark and often scary side of joy, the joy of wonderful memories of a season that has departed, leaving me with only those memories.
So today, through tears, I adopt a position of grief-filled joy, longing for my daughter, as I listen to the soft wails of the little girl across the hall, and I smile.
