“Don’t worry about anything – or anyone,” my grandmother said, and thumped her cane emphatically, underlining her words. She was speaking from the “other side,” a world where I could not hear her directly, but a gifted psychic could translate her words to me.
I don’t know if that world is a place, or space, or just a vibrating string in an alternate reality. Whatever, or wherever it is, my grandmother’s words made it feel real. This was in the summer of 1992, only a few months after Maya died, and I was wrestling with living in two worlds – the one we think of as reality and that alternate, liminal space where Maya existed, a place I longed to be.
My grandmother Eleanor, after whom I am named, was reassuring me that all those I love on the other side were just fine and I was not required to worry about them.
I wasn’t exactly worried about Maya, I just missed her fiercely. In the prologue of Swimming with Maya I wrote: “Grief seizes me by the scruff of the neck and will not let me go.”
Now, 27 years later, grief is less of an all-consuming force. It’s more like a mist, or fog, I move in. At certain times, like the anniversary of Maya’s death, it gathers. At others, it lifts, and my horizons clear.
Maya at age 18
There are many ways to lose a child, and death is not the worst of them. Alcohol or drug addiction, religious cults, mental illness – those are the long, slow, torturous routes where the loss repeats again and again, where dread is constant.
I’m very grateful Maya did not suffer. She was out larking around in a remote field, she slipped off the back of horse, hit her head in exactly the wrong place, and lost consciousness. It was fast, dramatic, efficient – much like Maya herself. And those of us left behind were left gasping at her speed, her daring, her sudden, irrevocable absence.
Maya was 19 when she left this earth at the peak of her beauty and energy. She was like the shooting stars carved into her headstone – a brilliant flash across the heavens. I celebrate her always, but most especially on this day. Every year in April as I place flowers and clean her headstone, I marvel at my ability to survive her death, and her ongoing absence.
I always have a missing person by my side, but I also have a companion and vivid memories of “love in the trenches” as her stepfather so accurately described our mother-daughter relationship. Ours was a passionate and durable love, but not an easy one.
Maya, age 18 months, at Lake of the Isles in Minneapolis
April is National Donate Life Month. If you haven’t already, I hope you’ll consider organ donation. The day Maya was declared brain dead, my dear friend Patti Frame received my daughter’s liver, and her life began again. Others received the gift of sight, or a new heart, or a new kidney. And many more people received bone grafts and skin tissue. They and their families celebrate this day along with us.
As I remember and celebrate my daughter, I also celebrate the resilience of everyone who grieves. It’s a miracle that we live through loss, yet somehow, we do. Durable and beautiful as the spring poppies on every California hillside, life carries on mystifying and entrancing us.
Dear Eleanor, having a child the same age as Maya would be makes it so painful to imagine your grief and deep sorrow. However, ultimately you live through this and share with others hope that all is not lost. I read “Swimming with Maya” shortly after it came out and it’s time for a re read. Been an organ donor as soon as it was an option. I know your experience will encourage others to do so.
Thanks so much Linda!
Eleanor, you always manage to skillfully weave heartache and strength when sharing your beautiful Maya with us. You honor her well.
Eleanor, you always manage to skillfully weave heartache and strength when sharing your beautiful Maya with us. Well done.
Thank you, Dana.
Such a tender and heartfelt reflection and tribute to your beautiful Maya, Eleanor. Thinking of you and sending love and positive, healing thoughts your way. Thank you for sharing.
So nice of you, Kathy. Thank you!
I loved this book. I think of you often.
Thank you!
I read this book awhile back. I think of you often.
A moving tribute and deeply felt reminder. Thank you,
Thank you, dear Susan.
Taken so soon but remembered forever. You are a living testament to this beautiful girl. Thank you for your gifted words.
Thanks for your thoughts Bev.
I remember Maya fondly. And after so many years with the intention of adding Organ Donor to my drivers license, I finally did it this year. Each time I look at it now, I will remember Maya.
Wonderful, LeeAnn. Thanks for reading! xo
So beautifully stated, every word. I am honored and grateful to have met Maya and you. Maya continues to warm my heart with memories of her in my childhood. Unexpectedly, I have met up with her in a few shamanic journeys. For me, her warm, vibrant energy is still around. Your lovely book about her certainly helped that to be even more so for me.
Thanks for your beautiful comment, Sean.
So beautifully spoken. My heart bleeds for your sorrow, and yet you have found so much to love and appreciate about your life! Your writing is such a gift! Sweet Maya will always be with us.
She will! Thank you, Barbara.
My dear Eleanor, you have my loving support this day and every day. Especially on this day. I am grateful for the journey we have taken together.
Thanks dear Camilla!