Three long years have passed since the last time I saw my beloved daughter and said good-bye to her before leaving the house. Time has NOT healed my wound. Certain wounds never heal. A broken heart and an anguished soul, due to the loss of one's child, never heal. The pain has stubbornly remained, hidden from others' view, but fully exposed again by a simple word of sympathy and remembrance. On the surface, it may seem as our lives have stayed on course without much change; however, that is simply an illusion, a false reality that only others see. The changes that have taken place are not visible to the naked eye because they have affected our souls, our very existence as human beings, our thoughts, our dreams, our hopes, and the future.
Others may pass by our house, the same house where our beloved Shahdi took her last breath, and see no difference but the disappearance of Shahdi's car from the driveway, which happened only this last summer. Our activities may appear to be the same. We still leave for work every morning and return home every evening. Instead of one dog, we now have two dogs. Instead of Shahdi's big trampoline and the tall polar tree in the backyard, we now have more green grass . There is no mark or sign on the outside to tell people of the tragedy that befell this house and its inhabitants. The pain and suffering of the people who live inside are not visible to the passersby. There are no flashing lights above our front door that says this house belongs to a pair of humans with broken hearts. Our neighbors may have forgotten, but we never will.
One may wonder about the type of coping mechanisms I have used in the past three years to deal with the enormity of my loss. Writing has indeed been very helpful for me personally. The love and support of our family and friends have been very helpful as well. It seems as I have been on a quest for distractions ever since Shahdi's passing. I am constantly looking for ways to trick my mind into not thinking of Shahdi's absence in our lives.
In the first few months following her death, I did a lot of online shopping. Going to the local stores which I had frequented with Shahdi was obviously not an option for the melancholy state of my mind. Not that I expected the purchased items would make me happy, but in a way they helped in emphasizing the cruel irony of the continuity of life, even after such a monumental loss as ours. Shahdi and I both enjoyed online shopping. She used to order most of her clothes online, particularly her famous combat boots. Receiving the new bistro set for the deck was a momentary distraction, but also a reminder of when, a decade ago, Shahdi, Arman and I had gone to the store to purchase a swing for the deck. I tried to do the familiar activities, hoping they would be able to bring me some peace, some normalcy. Maybe in a way, they did, because I have not gone insane yet because of my grief.
I have always loved books and been an avid reader, but after Shahdi's passing, the only genre of books which was able to lift me out of my miserable reality, was regency romance. I have been consuming Kindle's romance novels like an addict ever since. Many times, if I like the heroine of the story, I try to think of her as Shahdi and follow the ups and downs of her life story as if she were my daughter. I now mainly read books with happy endings, a contrast to our reality. I have even contemplated about writing my own romance novel depicting Shahdi as the main character. Maybe some day I will write such a story. For now, the pain is still too raw to be able to think of Shahdi in happier circumstances.
I have also found comfort in surrounding myself with images of Shahdi, both at home and at work. Seeing her pretty face and smiles reminds me of the treasure I once held. It also makes her memory alive in every day of my life. Each image takes me back to the day when I took those pictures of her. I then try to recall her at that particular age. How she sounded, how she looked like, how she acted, what she liked, etc. The collection of these momentary recollections makes Shahdi be a part of my everyday life even though in reality her actual body is buried miles away in a cemetery.
Traveling has been very distracting too. When one loses a child, one realizes how fragile and unstable life is. I now understand that the only valuable commodity in life is love and friendship. Therefore, I have tried to travel more in order to spend more time with my loved ones. I have endeavored to build new happy memories with Arman while traveling together. After all, I still have one child who needs me, and I wish to fill his memory bank with enough happy memories with his mother to last him a lifetime!
Having read several books on afterlife in the last three years has also provided me with a glimmer of hope that maybe there is some truth to these stories and our soul escapes the fate of our bodies when death occurs. If in fact our soul moves on to another realm, then there is a good chance that I will be able to reconnect with Shahdi after I die. Of course, I am deeply skeptical, but like a cancer patient who is desperate for any promising treatment, I am desperate for any venue which might make our separation from Shahdi only temporary until we reunite with her after our death.
The only positive outcome of our tragedy has been my acceptance of death without fear or reservation. Sooner or later, the book of my life will run out of new chapters and I will come face to face with Death, and knowing that Shahdi had traveled this path before me, gives me an enormous amount of courage and comfort. I will keep the faith that our existence is not solely limited to our physical bodies and there is more to our universe than what we are able to comprehend and imagine.
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