"To the woman who could not get away...."

We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin.

I was behind the wheel. You were staring out the passenger window as the snow swirled down from above. It looked soft, like eiderdown fluttering to the Earth. Or like feathers from the beating wings of some distant, smiling Angel.

A person who’d never touched snow before might assume it to be warm, comforting even.

But not us.

I could see the tension in your shoulders. You looked as cold as you were that night.

You know you haven't smiled at me in months? It's not an accusation. I don't have it in my heart to blame you. It's just an observation. I know smiling in general is difficult now. Most days it feels impossible. And for me, when a smile comes it almost feels wrong.

I imagine it's harder for you. And I imagine that seeing me... well I'm just another reminder.

God.

You were so silent, staring out that window, at the snow laden pines and the lazy drifting snowflakes. You were as silent as you have been since.... Well, since you came home after your hospital stay... after the night when you tried to... to go away.

I know you were thinking of her. So was I.

I often imagine her looking down on us and laughing-- our daughter. I imagine her as that cherub in some shining beyond, sending down little feathers of love.

I try to hold that image because the other one is too painful. But sometimes it forces its way to the front of my mind.... And I picture her that way.

You're suffering. I can see it on your face. Our sons can too: you're picturing her that way. That wounded part of your heart is torturing you by fixating on how wrong she looked, how cold she felt, how still she was... the last time you held her.

I know the fact of our loss can't be forgotten. That pain is forever. I wouldn't forget even if I could, seems to me that wouldn't be right. Our daughter-- she was so precious. And wherever she is now I still love her. I treasure the memories of her cuddling up between us. I miss the little, delicate sounds she made when she felt comforted. I picture her sweet, trusting smile and it hurts so goddamned bad to remember that she's gone. But if remembering our loss is what it takes to remember that-- for a woefully short time-- she was here, and she was loved, then the pain is worth it.

.... to me.

But it's not healthy-- no, forget healthy it's not livable-- to obsess on that loss. Instead of seeing her as a smiling angel, you are haunted by her death. You're trapped staring into the face of a ghost-- our daughter at the worst, instead of the joyful memory of our daughter at her best.

You do NOT deserve that anguish.

That's why I brought you here. So you and I both might disconnect and reconnect. Not to forget her-- never. Not even to get over her. But only to get away from the grief, and remember the good. If only for a time.

I thought all this, while I watched you watch the snow fall. But as we rolled up the drive way, the only sound inside the car was the crunching of wheels on icy gravel.

I'd tried so many times back home to break the silence between us. It's not just because I want you to hear me.

It's because I need to hear you. I don't want this to sound like a burden, and I hope you can hear it as an invitation: come back to the land of the living. There are still people who love you here, on this Earth.

I love you. Maybe you don't want to hear that, but it's the truth.

And I want you to know it. Even in the wasteland of our grief, I still love you. I still hope for you to live a good life and feel joy once again.

In the hospital, after your attempt you said you blamed yourself.

And you know what?

When you said that it broke my heart all over again. You did NOT cause our daughter's death. The guilt you feel is a cruelty and a lie. The truth is we were struck by a tragedy we did not invite or deserve, a tragedy she did not deserve. But you remain as innocent and as pure as she was.

You were only ever a devoted and loving mother to her. You did her no harm. Her experience of you was one of profound comfort, of safety, and of peace.

Our baby's death was down to wretched chance. And second guessing yourself with endless "what-ifs"-- well, that's never going to bring her back. All it's going to do is plague you with sharper regret for things you had no control over and no deliberation in.

But I understand feeling like it's your fault. I feel the same way. At my lowest I think to myself: I failed to protect her.... But, realistically, what would I-- or you-- have protected her from? Sleep? Her crib should have kept her safe. Our sons slept in the same bed at her age, and look how healthy they are now. Everything we did to protect them-- we did for her as well-- and still, the brutal mysteries of unpredictable circumstance conspired to take her away. In the middle of a peaceful night. We had no warning that we should have done anything differently. We sang her to sleep like any other night. All the what-ifs are merely the pain of hindsight.

I want you to know: I do not blame you. It's not rational or just that you should blame yourself. But I know, rationality cannot easily sway a heart made stubborn by loss. So please, try and ask yourself: if our daughter were somehow here for another moment, and somehow able to speak, would she blame you?

No, she would not. if she were here she'd only want to hold you and be held by you. She'd love you as much as ever.

I know that with all my soul, and I wish I could help you believe it.

I want you to show yourself some mercy!

Ah! I hardly know how to cope with this myself, and I don't know what I'm supposed to say or write to help you come back.

I feel this need to say something, but I know what's here between us can't really be put into words. Not completely, or at least, not by me.

But I'm trying.

Can I tell you why I addressed this letter "to the woman who could not get away?"

It was one of the first lucid things you'd after waking up in the ER, when you realized where you were, you said: "I tried so hard, but I just couldn't get away."

When you said that, a chill went down my spine. The look in your eyes was so... despairing. Your voice was flat and cold. It was like I was looking at the human personification of a withered forest, starved by winter and wasting away in a harsh wind.

I'd never seen anyone look so broken. In that moment you looked, forgive me for saying, but you looked closer to death than you had the very night I'd discovered your attempt and found you senseless and chilled to the core on the frozen roots beneath that spruce out back.

And hearing such despair in your voice upon waking, that's not what I'd expected. Certainly not what I'd hoped for in my heart.

I'd hoped you'd bound back to life with a new found vigor. Unrealistic. I know. But your words pierced me, and I know I'll never forget them.

... I tried so hard, but I just couldn't get away...

In the ER, I thought you meant you'd tried so hard to get away from your life. And I suppose, in a way you did try that, on a technicality. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to believe that was never really your goal. I think, in your despair, you convinced yourself getting away from life was the only way to get away from your grief.

I don't think you wanted to die, I think you just wanted-- needed-- the pain to end.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm being presumptive.

I don't mean to be. I don't want to tell you what you felt and what you're feeling. But I'm hurting over all this and I want to make sense of things.

I want to understand. I wish I could help you heal.

If your goal really was to get away from life, then I hope your goals have changed. If they haven't, then I can't and wont help you there. I wont even wish you luck....

But if your goal was to get away from the grief, then I imagine your goal hasn't changed. And I'll help in any way I can, as long as you aren't getting away from life.

I'm confused though. Uncertain would be an under-exageration. I'm bewildered, and I don't know what to do. I don't want to be a prison unto you. I don't want to force you to stick around. I want you to want to stick around, not just for my sake, and for the sake of the kids, and the rest of the friends and family who love you, but for your own sake. You deserve happiness again, even if it's a long struggle to rediscover it.

So all I'm really hoping to say in this letter is: To the woman who could not get away, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. The pain over our loss is shared. If you want to get away from the grief, then I want to help you. But I don't know how. So please know, that when you're ready you can talk to me-- about anything. Nothing you can say will make me stop loving you.

I'm not pressuring you to talk, only telling you I'm a safe ear when you decide you're able. We're both wounded, but maybe we can heal each other a bit. It can't hurt to try. And even if we can't bring each other the peace and happiness we used to feel, at least we can both know we're not suffering alone.

I scheduled this getaway, wondering if you'd even agree to come with me. I'm glad you did. Watching you watch the snow hurt my heart-- my heart! The one that has already been so battered I didn't think it would ever flinch at another bruise....

Guiding you through the falling snowflakes and across the porch... that felt right.

When I held your hand, it was just to offer some stability-- because the steps seemed so slippery. But it felt right to touch the warmth of your fingers, and to know-- thank God-- your heart is still beating.

Now I'm here, writing you this letter, watching you stare at the dancing flames in the fireplace.

I'm sitting across from you in this warm, rustic building and I feel like this will be a good home for the next few days.

When I look at you, I don't only see your sorrow, your loss, and your brokenness. I see the life we've shared together. I see the woman I fell in love with so many years ago. I see the mother of three beautiful, perfect children: our daughter who was so wonderful when she was here, and our sons who are still with us and still so full of promise and fear. I see the possibility of a hard won future, one which we'll all savor and enjoy....

I can imagine you smiling again, in time.

I'm not sure what we'll achieve alone and together in the present, here on this getaway. But part of me thinks the best way to get-away from the grief is to get closer to the joy that was. It's not fair that she's passed, but she doesn't have to be gone, not from our hearts and our memories. So I brought our pictures of her. And I thought I'd take some time looking at her, and remembering her.

I'm going to celebrate her time with us, and that's an open invitation. If you are able to join me, you'll be welcomed with warm arms and an open heart. If you're not able to look so closely yet, then I won't pressure you.

I'm also willing to give you a few gentle distractions if you wish. The cabin I booked is full of comforts and I stocked it with plenty of hot cocoa and peppermint candy. I brought a couple of our favorite DVD's, some board games, and a good walking stick-- because whether you want mountain or lake, the trails around here look very inviting.

But we're on this getaway together and whether or not we succeed in getting away I'm going to try to give you my best, and I will accept you wherever you are at.

Love,

-Your husband.

***

Author's note: Again, this "letter" is completely fictional. Thankfully, I haven't dealt with the kind of loss that the narrator and character in my story are dealing with. But as a father, the idea of losing a child is simply terrifying. And as a husband, and a friend, the idea of trying to be present for a loved one who's struggled/ struggling with suicidal ideation is also difficult. In short, this story is an exploration of my own fears and insecurities and is NOT intended to be insensitive to people who have gone through similar situations or real life crisis.

Also, if the theme seems familiar to any of my past stories, that's actually deliberate. This story is intended to provide continuity to a short piece of fictional absurdism I wrote and published on Vocal about 10 months ago, called "Wild Creatures Bear No Crisis", and the main character in that story is the addressee of this letter. That story deals with the acute edge of her anguish over losing her daughter, and includes a detailed (but not gory) suicide attempt on her part. However it ends on an optimistic upturn, and I had always felt like I needed to write a follow up, to give myself a little closure and solidify the sense that things would indeed get better for the family I imagined.

If you're interested in reading it, you can find it here, and as always I'm very open to critical feedback: https://vocal.media/fiction/wild-creatures-bear-no-crisis