Letting Go

Sunset at the community dock in Port Madison

On August 30, 2022, Hannah has been gone from this earthly plane for twelve years. She had also just turned twelve years old when she died. She’s been gone as long as she lived.

Lately, I’ve been pretty angry that she’s not still on this earth. I miss her female company, her confidences, and her allegiance to me. I miss her positivity and high energy. I miss her planning, her busyness, and her activities. I miss seeing her with friends. I miss her at the dinner table or on any special occasion. I miss watching what she would have become. I miss Hannah so much.

And my anger that Hannah’s gone has spilled over into my relationships with the people whom I’m closest to. I’m angry that her brothers and friends and cousins get to grow up and live the lives they choose. Many are busy pursuing higher degrees, starting careers, traveling, getting married, having children; all things Hannah will never know. It’s not their fault that my daughter will never get to realize these things. Regardless, my fuse is short, I’m quickly irritable, and I tend to see the worst in others, particularly my family. I especially get upset when I perceive a lack of communication or consideration, a lack of effort, or a lack of trying to meet up to a potential with their work, self-care, or relationships. The last potential Hannah tried to live up to was beating cancer as a twelve-year-old. She barely had a fighting chance. I lay awake at night and count everyone’s faults, including my own. It’s not a happy place to be.

I don’t need a psychoanalyst to tell me that underneath all of that anger is sadness. When Hannah died twelve years ago on a warm August afternoon, I’d never felt so sad and heartbroken in my life. I’ve recovered from some of that deep grief, but periodically it creeps into my awareness in the form of crocodile tears or flaming madness. Hannah wouldn’t want me to live in this mindset. I can just see her rolling her eyes at me, “C’mon Mom, get over it!!” Sorry honey, but I’ll never get over wishing you were still here.

I may also be sad and angry because we just let go of the last earthly piece of her, her ashes. We have not been able to release her ashes since they were returned to us from the funeral home. They have sat in a biodegradable box in my dresser ever since we brought her home from Cooks. The thought of scattering her ashes has been unbearable. Until now.

As I wrote about in A Soul Lives On, we didn’t know until after Hannah passed that she wanted to have her ashes scattered in Puget Sound. She shared that wish with her friend, Courtney, just months before she was diagnosed with brain cancer. At this point it seems selfish or weird or even hypocritical to hold onto them and not honor her wishes. I have spent years and many pages sharing with the world that Hannah is still alive in spirit. So why does letting go of her ashes feel like a monumentally emotional task? No wonder I’ve been on the edge of erupting daily.

And before we let them go, we wondered if we should hold some of them back? Bill wants to keep a small portion of the ashes to take with us on a special trip somewhere. He reminded me that Hannah liked to say, “Live life!” Bill wants to take a small earthly part of her to some magical place to honor that wish. I don’t know where or when that may be, but we kept a piece of Hannah for that journey. Perhaps as we scatter her ashes and finally let her go, she is happy that we are choosing to live our own lives and not stopping ourselves from living under the cloud of grief.

Tuesday on the anniversary of her death, we gathered to release her ashes in Port Madison Bay. Bill and I were joined by Ryan, Andrew, Adam & Alexis, and my sister-in-law, Linda. Following a dinner of Hannah’s favorite chicken enchiladas, we walked down to the beach after sunset. I’d been following the tide tables, wanting to set her ashes in the water on an outgoing tide. A beautiful crescent moon hung in the sky as we gathered on the community dock. Bill and I said a few words, and then I placed the paper box in the water. We watched as an otter or seal, hard to tell which with the fading light, approached the dock. The box floated back to us, so I reached out, leveled the ashes, and set it back in the water. Shortly thereafter, it sunk. At first, I was worried that the marine animal had gotten to it, but Ryan assured me that was not the case. He said he heard the water fill the box as it descended. We cried and hugged and said goodbye to Hannah.

Back at the house, we lit an outdoor fire in our patio pit and waited for it to burn down to make s’mores, one of Hannah’s favorite treats. With our kids growing up in Pt Madison, I remembered many a night with Hannah’s big sister, Alli, and her family, having beach fires and roasting s’mores on this bay.

I hope Hannah is smiling that we’ve finally released her. After falling quickly asleep Tuesday night, I woke after midnight and couldn’t fall back to sleep until dawn. My body was restless, my legs were cramping, and my mind wouldn’t shut down. Maybe my own body, that had given birth to Hannah some twenty-four years ago, struggled to let the remains of her go. I don’t regret spreading her ashes in the Sound, but it may take some time before I’m at peace with it.

The next morning, I walked back down to the beach to make sure the tide had taken Hannah’s ashes. I walked all around the dock and along the beach, a bit anxious that the box had gotten snagged on a piling or a log, instead of disintegrating in the salty water. It was nowhere to be found. It reminded me of the days after she died when I walked for miles in the forest looking for her. Back then, it seemed too unbelievable that she had died. It still feels that way.