What I Can’t Say
Writing It Real subscriber essay for our series on writing grief
In July of 2022, my daughter died. Among all the grief, pain, and planning was my dread of talking about it. Condolences brought on huge waves of suffocating grief that broke me down. I needed to preserve my strength. A week out, I began thinking about how to tell family and friends my sad tale, waiting until I was able. So, I decided to send an email explaining why phone calls were too difficult. I knew everyone would have many questions.
The email would allow me to tell the tale just once. Plus, I process through writing. I needed to write it down. The following paragraphs are excerpts from that email.
On the morning of Wednesday, July 13, I got a frantic call from Noah, Annika’s daddy, who was in Eugene on business, asking me to please go over to their house asap. Tom, the neighbor across the street, had found my 6-year-old autistic granddaughter outside alone, going down the sidewalk on her scooter. Tom knew that to be strange. My daughter Erika would never have let her out on her own.
I hopped in my car. A few minutes before I got there, Noah called again, telling me to hurry. Someone had called 911, and the police were there.
When I arrived, the firemen were just jumping off their fire truck. When I pulled over, Annika was just outside my car. I picked her up and asked if she was hungry. She was. I gave her some crackers and sat her in my parked car. Neighbors were gathered all around. A ladder was leaning over the garage up to Erika’s bedroom windows.
“Mommy’s bedroom door wouldn’t open.” Erika had become more and more paranoid over the years and had placed a deadbolt on her bedroom door. Now, one of the firemen went up the ladder, pulled off the window screen, and wrenched the window open, breaking the child locks Erika installed.
“This isn’t good, this isn’t good.” Tom’s wife Liz tried to reassure me that everything would most likely be okay. “This isn’t good. This isn’t good.”
A fireman pulled me aside and told me that Erika was deceased. Oh my God, oh my God! I
grabbed his arms and started hyperventilating. He told me I had to stop, or I would pass out. I can’t remember what he told me after that, if he told me anything. I don’t remember letting go.
Liz was right there telling me that Annika and I should go to her house. As she was gently steering us away, Kathy, the next-door neighbor raising her three grandchildren who are Annika’s playmates, poked her head low between legs of the
surrounding group and asked, “Would Annika like to come over to play with Malakai?” Oh, yes, thank you, thank you.
Noah called again. He was driving the three hours toward home. Liz told me not to tell Noah until he got home, but when he asked, I told him through my sobs, “She’s dead, she dead.” His crying started.
The firemen left, and people slowly dispersed, but the police were there for a long time. Liz was there to walk me to her house, but I couldn’t move and sat down on the fender of Erika’s car. My tears melted into my hands. They haven’t stopped.
A policeman came and talked to me. I remember him saying that people around me will want me to do many things, thinking they are caring for me, but I must decide what is best for myself. He explained there would be a coroner coming soon, and then grief counselors to walk me through things.
Liz hugged me to comfort me. I was so hot, and I really wanted to be alone. I remembered the policeman’s words, and when I looked up, I saw
a little table with four chairs outside on the patio. “I want to go out there, please, by myself.”
I sat out there for an hour or so and cried and cried over my beautiful baby housed in a body with brain chemicals that fought to keep her beautiful soul from coming through. Yet her bright spirit won many, many times. Now she was free of that body and will come back again in one that will allow her to thrive.
They asked me if I wanted to view Erika. I told them I didn’t know. I think if I did, I would simply melt into the pavement. They said to think about it. Noah called and said he would arrive in about an hour and a half.
He arrived just as they were wheeling Erika’s shrouded body out. We stood there next to the van, weeping. I placed roses from Erika’s garden over the shroud. Noah kissed her forehead.
We were gathered around Liz’s outdoor table when the coroner and policewoman showed up to give instructions. I asked if they had found anything to explain this.
Both Noah and I had told them Erika had been doing very well lately. Even though she was stressed about her marriage breaking up and her intended move, she was doing well. My partner and I had decided to help her buy a home, and she was very excited about that. In fact, that afternoon we were scheduled to view three houses she had chosen to look at. I hadn’t been able to get hold of her to go see them. That wasn’t unusual for Erika. Sometimes, if she was busy, she wouldn’t respond, and she often lost her phone, or it lost power. I would go view the homes myself if she didn’t get back to me. Early that morning, I had texted her asking if she was okay and if she was mad at me about something. I had called her on Monday to see if I could stop by, but she didn’t answer. I almost did anyway, but remembered she was upset the last time I stopped by unannounced. I wish I had, I wish I had.
That was another thing the policemen had asked me. When did I last hear from her? We checked my phone. She had responded to a text Saturday night. After that, my calls and texts went unanswered. Noah had last seen her on their security system Sunday evening flying kites with Annika in the backyard, then nothing. He had left on Sunday morning. We don’t know how long Annika had been alone. Horrible thoughts. I wish over and over that I had stopped in on Monday.
The coroners and the policewoman told us that there was no evidence of foul play. They wanted to know what medications she was on or if she had been in pain. Erika had recently been hobbling around with a painful foot, and the pain had just jettisoned up to her knee. She hated pain.
They found pain pills nearby that were either taken in too great a number or did not mix with her medications. We are awaiting a toxicology report. Erika would never, ever have left her little girl. She was a fantastic mother and did everything for the child she loved so deeply. They were attached at the hip. She was excited about getting her new house. Her calendar was full. She was packing things up. It was accidental.
I truly believe Erika’s spirit is with us. She has let me know of her presence several times, mostly through rapidly flashing lights. She has told me, “Get out of your own grief, Mom, and watch over Annika!” Well, I’ll never get over my grief, but I work at being very present with my granddaughter.
The counselors told us how to talk to Annika. Be very clear. Say mommy has gone to heaven, or better to just say she is dead. Don’t try to soften the blow with flowery language because that will only confuse her. As soon as they coached us on that
Noah said, “Susan, let’s go get Annika now.” When we got to Kathy’s house, she told us Annika had been very hungry and thirsty and that her lips were chapped, so she had cared for her. She gave me a picture Annika had colored for me.
Noah and I took Annika home, and we all sat on the couch. We told her as clearly and gently as we could. But is that possible? She cried off and on, Noah was nonstop, and I couldn’t always hold my flow, but in between tears, Annika said, “Sad away. I don’t want to be sad. Sad away.” She rubbed her eyes. “I want to be happy, not sad. No sad!” She looked outside.
“I want to go to Mommy’s car.”
“You want to go sit in Mommy’s car?”
“Yes. I want to go to the park.”
Noah took her to the park. It was the best for both of them. I looked in Annika’s room and saw a mass of thrown toys and stuffed animals, an upturned table and chair. How long had that little girl been knocking on Mommy’s door? Long enough to stop her tantrums and decide to open the garage door and go outside by herself.
Now she asks about Erika—is she a skeleton, does she have hair and toes—and most of all, she wants her mommy back, wants a mommy, needs a mommy.
So that’s the story I haven’t been able to talk to you about. But I could tell you in writing. Talking on the phone just makes me crumble and cry. I can’t do that right now. I can’t.
***
Susan Ullis lives in Vancouver, Washington. She moved there 9 years ago to be close to her eldest daughter and her only grandchild, 1-year-old Annika, in Portland. When Annika was 6, her mother died due to an unintentional overdose. Susan has helped Annika’s father with her care since then. Annika, now 10, continues to spend many hours with Susan play-acting with dolls, board games, attending children’s theatre, and visiting parks.
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Thank you for reading Barbara, and for your comments. Sharing with such an empathetic heart helps.
Thank you Elizabeth. Sharing helps, thanks for reading. Susan