Unpreventable Deaths
Remembering, loving, and grieving our past selves
Summer used to feel different, and I’m not just talking about the wildfires and the wars and the burned earth.
Summer was once a shiny blue convertible under the sun, winding lazily along a scenic road. A slow drive to happy music. A backseat packed with picnic baskets and plans and people I used to know.
Every year, part of me thinks I’ll reenter that version of things, that this time, it will be different. And for a while, it kind of is. But summer always lives a short life before it crashes here, into birthdays and wedding anniversaries that can’t be celebrated. Into my sister’s death date. Her name was Shannon, by the way.
We used to gather to remember her, but we stopped doing that a long time ago. Grief, I’ve learned, is an unwelcome guest, even when it’s expected. It annoys people. Sometimes, they actually get angry. They protest the ways you’ve changed; they say they don’t like this new you. Their accusations strike like stomping feet as they list all the ways you’re doing this wrong: You’re not “moving on,” not living, not burying your grief with your dead where they insist it belongs—underground and out of sight1.
My best friend came over on Shannon’s death anniversary. She, my mom, and I ordered sushi and watched old family videos, some of which I’d never seen. What an experience to see my family alive and together again. It felt like ✨A Christmas Miracle✨, but in July, and also, not really a miracle (but still a treasure, all the same).
You know that scene in Home Alone when it’s almost Christmas, and Kevin is supposed to be with his family, but he’s not? Instead, he’s outside in the dark, in the cold, utterly alone, watching another family gather and celebrate. That’s kind of what it was like.
Watching those old family videos, seeing us all together again in the “before” times, feeling nostalgia colliding with the present—what was versus what is. Sitting with the specialness of watching my family and with the knowing that there’s no way to reenter that life; no way to be with them, touch them, hold them.
On the screen, I saw little Danielle dancing, reading, singing, playing, being a kid, and I wanted to hold her too.
For a moment, I imagined getting in the car, driving to our old house, driving back in time, walking in the front door, and once again being that version of me. Who would that Danielle have been, I wonder. In the words of Mary Oliver, what would she have done with her one wild and precious life?2
She had no idea what was coming. She knew nothing about all the selves she’d be and then lose, all the versions of her that would die again and again.
I still remember her, this child me. She was silly and spontaneous. She climbed trees until the people below shrank into faceless dots on the ground. She read the dictionary for “fun.” She wanted so badly to fit in, to be accepted. She was innocent and sensitive; she thought being perfect and unobtrusive would make her safe, and in the spirit of Lisa Olivera’s writing—she was lovable3.
The young adult was death’s second casualty. She seemed so grown up, so far away from the fatherless child. She was fun and cool and never asked for anything. The world saw her as light and breezy; full of bright smiles and laughter that rose like bubbles, and she was not okay. She was starving. She was afraid to say no. She was lost. She couldn’t find that tiny red dot on the map that says, “You are here.” She was lonely and she was in so much pain, and she was lovable.
And then there was the adult. The wife. The widow. The woman in the ruins of another whole life and all the hopes and dreams it held. A body going through the motions. A grief machine. A soul who thought she was too broken and far away for anyone to know. And she was lovable.
And she was not broken or far away at all.
All the lives we’ve led that ended slowly or abruptly, all the selves we once were and whoever these version of us would have been, whatever we were facing then and are facing now—we are never the only ones.
Our past selves are always with us in some way. At least that’s what I believe. Maybe we can’t be them anymore, but we can reach them. We can hold them, let them know they were lovable.
This version of you that exists here today, the version of you who is reading these words, know this: You are here. And you are lovable.
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Hello lovely readers,
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Reflection Questions:
Who are your “past selves?” What makes them different from the version of you that exists today?
Consider one of your past selves—can you picture this version of you? Is there a particular memory, time, or place connected to this past self?
How do you feel toward this version of you? Tender? Protective? Angry? Something else? What parts of this past self are still with you?
If the you that exists today could say or give something to this past self, what would it be?
What would you want your past self to know?
I like footnotes. If you are feeling caught between wanting to honour your grief/pain in relationship with others but you’re sensing that people will turn away, you are not alone in this experience. I write about “grief ghosting” often because it is so common. It’s also so important to know that not everyone turns away. Here are a few stories that explore these themes:
The Summer Day is one of Mary Oliver’s most famous poems. If you want to explore more of her life and work, here is her website.
Lisa Olivera’s book, When the Ache Remains sits beside me on my writing desk. Sometimes, when I get stuck, I pick it up. Her words settle me. Turns out that as I was writing this story, I’d left off right before a section called “Loving Our Past Selves” where Lisa breathes life on the page into some of her past selves, finishing with “and she was lovable.” It felt too serendipitous to not weave the spirit of her words into the fabric of this remembering. Here is a link to When the Ache Remains.
*Past selves aren’t a new theme here. Some of the ideas in this story are from an earlier piece of writing I called “The Grief Machine.” I decided to rework that story into this one.
Cover photo by Bianca van Niekerk via Unsplash.
Okay, the post is over now for real.
This makes me think of how with Shannon’s death it was not just one child that was lost too soon, but two.
always enjoy your total honesty, Danielle xx