Molly Never Got to Ring The Bell

Isabella just rang the bell.

Michael Strahan has a daughter. Her name is Isabella. She has a sister. They are “super close”. The bell she rang means she is cleared from her cancer. A brain tumor. She is sharing her story on network television. 

And she should. It is a touching, moving, miraculous story full of not only all that was difficult and challenging and wrong, but also all that was right. 

Quick diagnosis.

Doctors and nurses who listened to her.

Doctors and nurses who believed her.

Well known family doesn’t hurt either.

Do I sound bitter? Resentful maybe? Using someone else’s tragedy and pain for my whipping boy? While these sentences may accurately describe how their content might make people feel, they do not describe my internal feelings. 

Those are far more complex.

The job of a grieving mother, you know, a mother with a dead kid, is not simple It is not easy to describe. It is not consistent. It is not one that can be generalized into a guide for new users. (Well, any grieving mother will relate to almost everything on the list, but each experience is unique and different).

But! The number one job mentioned in the guide, the job that is unwavering no matter the experiences, feelings and duties we have after our child dies is this;

Do NOT let your grief make others uncomfortable!

This is a Day One Reality. I vividly remember my first few days and weeks of life after Molly died. While I had amazing family and community support, I also had several people whose actions, behaviors, facial expressions and words made it clear that my grief was secondary to either their comfort, or the comfort of others.

A long-time friend saw me on the street made eye contact and then ducked into a store. 

A school district administrator admonished me for crying after a school board meeting. Hastily removing me from the room while she was reminding me that crying was not okay in public. 

A long-time mentor told me to work all day and cry all night. 

A dance mom remarked in surprise that I was “still so sad” six months after Molly died and that it was time to stop sharing these feelings publicly.

Roy saying “there you go, pulling the dead kid card” when I said no to meeting up as I was having a particularly bad day. (This one was especially bad as Roy convinced me to go away with him and I missed the last week of Molly’s life).

The athletic director at Bow High School included “talking about Molly” in the weakness column on my season review in the fall of 2017. Several girls on my team were friends with Molly and they talked about her as much as I did. He told me that it was unhealthy and inappropriate. (He backed down when I suggested he fire me for it.) 

I could go on, I have quite a long list, but you get my drift. The needs and feelings of others are more important than the grief you have for your child. No one wants to be around a sad person. No one wants a party ruined or yet another sad moment. 

This was especially hard for Gracie. She stayed home from almost all social events in the months and years after Molly died. She was stuck between the overwhelming sadness that spilled out of her and the desire to no longer be “the sister of the dead kid”.

It’s ugly isn’t it.

I am happy for the Strahan’s I really am. Relieved and excited that Isabella gets to continue through all of life’s milestones with her sister. Happy for her sister that she gets to continue to grow up with Isabella. Truly happy for her mom, (and dad) as they are not living the life of grieving parents.

My biggest feeling after watching this story on tv, one that eats at me daily, almost nine years later is why? Why them and not us. Why does Isabella get to stay alive and Molly didn’t? Why does Isabella’s sister get to keep her and Gracie didn’t get to keep Molly? Why do her parents get to celebrate while Kenny and I grieve. 

There is no answer to this question, and there is no word for us, Gracie is not an orphan, I am not a widow and Kenny is not a widower. So, what are we? What does society call us to describe our new identity? Nothing, because we are something that is so ugly there is no word for it.

I know, I know, we are not each actually ugly. What happened to us is ugly. Dead child is too accurate a description, to horrifying and wrong to be given a label that will allow people to picture it. 

It is human nature to gloss over the ugly, or embarrassing, or uncomfortable, or accurate reality of things. That is why “good personality” describes someone not conventionally pretty, why “my time of the month” is preferred over “Period”, and why body parts are often left out of descriptions of people with certain illnesses and disorders.

We want everyone else to be comfortable.

The incredibly true other side to this is that people have the right to chose what they want to hear, be included in or experience. While at the time my friend avoiding me hurt my feelings, I can now understand it. She needed time. At that moment my hurt was too big for her. She apologized weeks later. She is a terrific support for me now.

In the early days of grief, which, by the way, is no less than five years, the person suffering the loss should get a free pass to all aspects of life. Five years you say. Ask me about that someday. It is surprisingly accurate. 

In the early days of grief, the one suffering the loss should have total freedom to feel however they feel whenever they feel it. The best support I received on those early days was just people showing up. Cards, texts, and letters from those who could not. I even appreciated the wildly inappropriate comments and suggestions after a bit because I knew they were trying. 

At 8 years, 8 months and 30 days, I am better able to measure my emotions and monitor overtly obviously displays of grief. I also cry at least once a day and asl Molly to please please please come back several times a day.

 I also plead with the universe to give me a do over. Take me back to the summer of 2005, I whisper to the empty house, give me a do over. 

I know these frantic requests will never be granted. They can’t be. But it does not stop me from imploring the empty rooms of my house for these wishes to be granted.

And while I will never understand why Isabella was chosen to live and Molly wasn’t, I thank my same empty house, for sparing the Strahan Family the reality that is my life.

God Speed Isabella. I am glad that I do not have to tell your spirit to look for Molly. I am glad that your very own eyes can look at your very own sister for many years to come.