A Half-Hearted Reality

There are some moments in life that we will never forget. Try as I might, I will never forget the moment when Alana started to struggle to breathe. When I thought she was just having a panic attack. I will never forget watching her take her last breath, or when her heart stopped under my fingers. I cannot unhear the moment when the doctor called the time of death.

Every single one of those moments will stay with me for the rest of my life.

But there is another moment, just days later, that haunts me too.

As I lay in bed holding Allison while we tried to fall asleep, she said to me through her tears:

“I’m an only child now.”

She was trying to grapple with the reality that her sister was forever gone. That her world, as she had always known it, would never be the same.

I pulled her closer and responded in a broken voice, “Yeah baby, you are.”

We held each other until she fell asleep. I did not sleep much in the days after Alana’s passing. That night was no different. Allison’s words tore through my heart.

So much of what I have shared has been about my own journey through grief and loss. What

I have not talked about is the struggle of trying to parent when half of your heart is anchored to a moment in time, while the other half is still living in the present.

Being Torn in Half

In a moment when I was desperate for understanding and validation, I searched through videos of other bereaved parents. I came across one that made me feel a little less broken.

They described having one foot in the present and one foot in the past. One foot with their children still here, and the other locked in the moment when they lost their other child. A life of constantly walking a border.

Those words took my breath away. Tears streamed down my face. It was not just me. Other people felt this too. That constant tugging and pulling, like your heart is being torn in two.

There have been so many moments in the nearly eight months. (I still cannot believe it has been that long since losing Alana). So many times when that ripping sensation returns. Times when the last thing I want to do is celebrate a holiday, return a call from the school, or celebrate Allison’s accomplishments.

It feels wrong to do any of it. Engaging in life feels like I am walking away from Alana. Like I am somehow forgetting her by continuing forward. I know logically that it is not true, but logic does not quiet the heart.

At the same time, it feels just as wrong to deny Allison the chance to celebrate, to live her life, and to experience the moments she has worked so hard for.

So here I am, caught between two realities. Grieving for the daughter who will never perform during halftime at a high school football game again, graduate, get married, or have children. While also trying to support, cheer on, and give her sister the best life I can.

As a mother, there is no worse feeling. At least for me, there isn't.

The New Reality

For years, I told my girls that I did not favor one over the other. That I loved them equally but differently.

Now I feel torn.

There are moments when I feel like I am losing time with Allison because I am grieving for her sister. That she gets overlooked while I work to build Alana’s nonprofit and honor my final promise to her. Then there are moments when I focus on Allison and feel like I am neglecting Alana’s memory.

I am constantly trying to balance these two parts of my heart. Caught between my two daughters.

The truth is, I will never stop missing Alana. I will never stop wishing she were here. My tears for her will always live just beneath the surface of my smile. But the other truth is that I still have a daughter to raise. A daughter who is facing one of the hardest things a child can experience. Losing her big sister.

So how do I find balance?

If I am honest, I don't know.

What I am learning is that I need to find ways to include Alana, without letting my grief take away from Allison’s moments. Something that I am learning is a very difficult dance to do.

When Allison had her big acting debut, I forced myself to sit in the same gym where Alana once performed. I looked at the same stage where she showed off the accents she had worked so hard on. Even with the memories and the pain, I cheered for Allison. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But this was Allison's moment. Alana had hers in middle school. It was Allison's turn. She deserved to have her moment too.

At the same time, I carried Alana with me.

I wore my locket with her picture. I brought my purse with her memorial pin. A bouquet of purple flowers sat at my feet beside bright carnations.

Later that night, I hugged Allison and told her how proud I was of her. I handed her the carnations. Then, with tears in my eyes, I gave her the purple flowers and said, “Your sister would want you to have these.” She looked at me, her smile fading for a moment, then hugged me tightly and said thank you.

This past Christmas was the hardest holiday we've faced.

It felt wrong to buy gifts for one child and not the other. I struggled to find the energy to create any kind of holiday magic, especially knowing that Alana had started to help

create that magic for her sister over the last few years.

Part of me wanted to disappear until it was over, but then I would look at Allison. She had already lost so much. I could not take this from her too. So, I forced myself to pushed through.

I wrapped her gifts in paper covered in owls, Alana’s favorite animal. I made a donation in Alana’s name to a wildlife foundation. The donation came with stuffed animals, and they sat under the tree in their shipping boxes beside Allison’s presents.

One of Allison’s gifts was a Ghostface jacket. Something her sister would have loved picking out for her. The tag read “From Big Sissy.”

Allison decided to pick out gifts for Adam and me, choosing things she thought Alana would have wanted us to have.

Even though Alana was not physically there, we found ways to include her.

Finding a Path

This is not something I share often.

The truth is, the small part of me that once feared death no longer does. There is a part of me that is ready to die. Death means I get to see and hold my daughter again.

The part of me that is still anchored to the moment when we lost Alana longs for the day I can be with her again. To hear her laugh. To see her smile. When I can hold her again without fearing losing her.

I do not share this because I worry people will misunderstand. That they might think I'm suicidal, I'm not. I just miss my daughter. A lot.

Another bereaved mother once said that every day feels like walking away from her child.

Then she shared something she had read. That every step away from the day they passed is actually a step closer to the day you will see them again.

That thought brought me comfort.

I am not walking away from Alana. Instead, I am walking toward her.

Until that day comes, I have Allison.

My sassy, silly daughter who is planning her 13th birthday. The girl who wants to learn guitar, because it connects her to her sister, who played guitar while Allison was on the drums. The girl who worries about Adam and mine's safety and happiness. The girl who works hard to stay on the honor roll, despite all she is facing.

That little girl still needs her mom.

No matter how heavy the grief feels, no matter how deep the ache runs, she still looks to me for support, guidance, and love.

She still wants to laugh with me. To share her stories. To be a kid.

I always thought I would walk through life with both of my daughters beside me. I never imagined I would have to honor one while raising the other. But I did not get to choose this path. So, now I am learning how to walk it.

With one foot in the past, with Alana.

And one foot in the present, with Allison.