I don’t think this is just a me thing; I think it’s part of how we’re built, but it seems that certain memories kind of ebb and flow through life. Some memories are forever prominent and can be recalled on demand, but others seem to lurk in the corners of my mind almost like the dog hair in the corners of the house or under the chairs. Much like the dog hair is stirred out of the corners with a swift breeze, these memories surface with the just the right triggers. Sometimes it’s a smell, a song, or a food. Somehow it always seems connected to one of my senses.
The other day it was both a song and muscle memory. Sure certain songs can take me back to middle school and the first romantic slow dance, while others make me think of a dance party in the living room to stave off boredom, still others bring back memories of adventure like skydiving at 18. The ABCs, however, was not a song I’d expected to spark a memory. Yet it did.
Tanner and I were going through the night time routine and somehow sign language came up. Years ago, I taught both kids the ABCs in sign language. It was one of those things that would entertain us on car rides or while waiting at a restaurant. It kept us sane and I figured it was good for the brain and dexterity. As the kids got older and we began to spell our names, it became even more entertaining - consider all the letters in our last name!
So as we chatted, both Tanner and I fell into old habits and started to form letters with our fingers. Tanner was a little rusty and he started at the beginning trying to shake out the cobwebs and remember how each letter was formed. He went slowly at first, looking to me for approval or hints. We both laughed at how we think the signs for r and x should be switched because their forms more closely resemble the opposite letter.
After he’d conquered each letter, we looked at each other and began signing and singing the ABCs. The muscle memory required to form the letters and the tune of the song became like the breeze and memories began surfacing. The further we got in the alphabet, the more our voices cracked, the more our eyes welled with tears. By the end we just leaned into each other and hugged letting the tears flow freely.
It was one of those moments that neither of us expected, but the memories of doing that exact thing with Rylie hit us both.
I wanted to ask him what was going through his mind, partially because I’m curious what these moments of grief are like in his head, but in all honesty, it would have been a welcome distraction from the emotions that were welling within me. Since I’ve been making an effort to sit in emotions when they come up instead of tamping them down, covering them up, or distracting myself, I sat there quietly. I just sat there (probably not as long as I should have, but certainly longer than normal) and let the memory wash over me.
For a brief moment, I could picture sitting with both a six year old Rylie and four year old Tanner helping them make the strange shapes with their chubby little fingers. I caught a glimpse of sitting at a table in a restaurant waiting for our food and having finger-spelling races for our last name. That one was always complete with giggles as our Gs and Us almost always got mixed up!
Then I sat there for a moment and just felt her absence. It was a VERY brief moment because for a girl who struggles with emotions, that’s a tough one. That’s the one I really want to cover up with conversation, awkward laughter, or sudden busyness.
But I could hear a few important people in my life ask, “What would it look like to just feel that absence? What’s the worst that could happen?” So I sat, leaned into Tanner and tried to honor the emotions we were both feeling.
I haven’t gotten to the point, that I sit in it long enough to really know what the “worst” is, but I’m making progress. A millisecond is better than no seconds, right?
After my brief dance with that loneliness and vulnerability, I whispered to Tanner, “I miss her so much.” He whispered back a muffled, “me too.” We leaned in a little closer.
I should have stayed in that place and let myself feel a little more, but I didn’t and I think that’s okay. It’s all part of the process.
Instead, I distracted myself with the mind boggling way that our memories work. It has to be our mind’s unique way of storing all the memories we make everyday since we can’t possibly keep them all front and center. I am so grateful that my senses can be like the breeze that stirs the dog hair from under the couches, and unearth those memories that seem long forgotten. Not only is it efficient, but it’s a relief to know that I’ll get another opportunity, when I least expect it, to practice sitting in an emotion.
Meghann and Ziggy Guentensberger are Rylie's parents. During their time in the hospital with Rylie and after her death, they began writing about their experiences. What started as a way to keep people informed of Rylie's condition, turned into a way for them to process all that was happening. After she died on May 26, 2017 they both continued to write as a way to process and heal themselves and occasionally inspire others. These writings are housed on the Rylie's ARK Facebook page.