On Loss

Dear Anna Claire,

I must begin first by apologizing to you. Everything you're about to read is entirely my fault.

Your brother cherishes his teddy bear. He's had it since he was born and, though he's received many a stuffed animal gift, he has always adored this little teddy. He sleeps with it even now (at six), and your dad and I always thought you'd  have no favorite.

You see, you have always loved all your stuffed animals without much discretion. One moment you're into the dolphin, the next you're carting around an elephant. This was, until, the unicorn.

For your third birthday, your Aunt Sara bought you the most adorable, sparkly polka-dotted, wide-eyed unicorn I've ever seen. If I were you, it'd be my favorite, too.

You took this thing everywhere. From the grocery store to Sunday School, this little bundle of joy was your left-hand conspirator (I hope you're still left-handed. Just because I think it's awesome.).

And here comes the sad, sad story. One Saturday afternoon, your brother, you, your unicorn, and I all set off to the hardware store to buy sand for your sandbox. And as fate would have it (and as is statistically the most probable scenario for parents everywhere), as soon as we loaded four hundred pounds of play-safe sand onto a dolly, you clutched that unicorn and said,

"Unicorn needs to go potty."

"Of course she does." I sighed glancing at that four hundred pounds and then to the opposite corner of Lowes, toward the bathroom I'd visited many times. But this time, I was alone with you and your brother (and that unicorn), and four hundred pounds of sand.

So off we went. And in the restroom, you decided you had to go, too, and handed me your unicorn for safe-keeping. I stuffed it into my purse and we finished all our business. We paid for the sand, loaded it into the car, and started for home.

Three blocks away from our house, it dawned on your brother the unicorn was nowhere in sight.

"Mom, Anna's unicorn is not it in the car."
"Oh, it's in my purse." And I glanced over and that purse was missing a unicorn.

I took some time at the stoplight and looked under the seat. No unicorn. Sam had scoured the back. No unicorn. In the rear-view mirror I watched the realization come to your face: your unicorn was gone.

"My UNICORN!" You were horrified.
"Anna, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I said.
"We just have to go back." Sam resolved.

And as I turned the car around, you began to panic. Sam did his very best to calm you: told you he'd be the team leader and we'd go back and we'd find it. We would. Because he was just sure nobody would take a unicorn in a store filled with dad stuff. Who'd do such a thing?

While we drove the 25 minutes back, I spoke with the gem of a lady in Customer Service who, without empathy and quite annoyed I was wasting what I'm sure was her full and busy day, told me there was no way she could help me. We went back to the store and (surprise, surprise) we scoured every inch of that place without finding your unicorn. And how you cried. It wasn't the cry of a petulant child. It was sorrowful and devastated and honest. Your heart was broken.

I had a real choice to make in this moment. I could've turned toward the nearest Target and replaced that unicorn without a second thought. It would've been so easy to turn your sadness into happiness in an instant. And I probably should have: you didn't lose the unicorn, I did. And it would've erased your pain. You would have been so relieved and gleeful.

But I didn't. I let you experience loss. And I'm not sure that was the right move. You see, even now as I type this, I think that was a terrible thing to do to you.

And so now, if you're fuming, or if your recurring dream of searching for a magical unicorn suddenly makes all too much sense, know that I was totally wrong. I admit it. Your therapist will be pleased - it really is the mother's fault.

But here's what I really hope happens. I hope you know I don't ever want to cause your pain. But I did. And you weren't angry at me at all. You were too busy mourning your loss. And this was two weeks ago and this morning you woke up and said, "Mom, my unicorn." That's all you said. You mentioned that loss at least once every day for about a week. Then, every other day. And you remember the feeling of losing something (for you, someone) you love desperately. And the absence leaves you searching for your friend.

This is your first loss. I can promise you it won't be your last. Loss sucks the air out of the room and leaves you doubled-over, gasping for breath. Loss is visceral and real and makes your body ache. And your brain scrambles around attempting to do what the brain does best: trying to make sense of something that does not ever make any sense. Ever. Loss doesn't get easier and it doesn't go away. It is the most terrible and painful part of living.

You felt your first loss at three years old. And  I will never forget. But in your loss, the last thing I want you to believe is that I can fix it. I don't want you searching for some solution. Because the brain is a powerful thing: it stores every moment of our lives and gives us these attachments and strings that guide us back and back until we reach that moment where it all began. And your first loss could have been fixed. But fixing this loss might just mean you'd be hoping I could fix your second and your third and your fourth. And maybe this wasn't the best time to teach you. But maybe it was.

And I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I caused you great pain and loss and didn't fix it even though I could have. I let you feel pain and loss and I still don't know if that was the right thing to do. But I do know this: parenting means I will screw up and I will make mistakes. And sometimes, those mistakes are easy to spot and others, well, other times they just aren't. I will not always do what is best for you and for that, I cannot apologize enough.

But here's my promise: I will always try. I will always think and reason and feel toward what is right and best for you. It will not always be what is easiest or prettiest. But it will always come from a place of love.

I want you to know that in your loss, you showed great grace and forgiveness. You hugged me while you cried and your brother was your champion, scouring the aisles and even asking if we could search a third time around the vast expanse of hardware and garden hoses. He adores you. And so do I. And in your loss, I hope this is the moment your brain and heart remember. I hope you remember that while we didn't fix it, we loved, and we hugged, and we mourned with you.