Rumi said it best: “Grief can be the garden of compassion.” I spotted this quote as I sat in my garden grieving over the sudden death of our 26-year-old daughter. Jogging with her fiancé in New York Central Park on Memorial Day 2008, Lauren Nicole Zussman went into cardiac arrest. One phone call changed the life of a virtually happy family. It was exactly eight years to the day of almost succumbing to an overdose of alcohol while vacationing at Lake Havasu. Clean and sober, never wavering, this Ford International Model almost became the poster child for the 12-Step Program. She was only four courses short of a life coach credential from New York University when she was unexpectedly taken away because of an unknown heart condition.
Temporarily, there is no value to life when you lose a child. I am now on the outside, looking into other houses filled with life and laughter. I belong to a club that no one wants to join, nor should they. The ebb and flow of the realization of death, being so final, terrifies my soul. Shock waves continue as a sense of denial weaves its way back and forth to a false sense of security. The conveyor belt of confusion, anger, sadness, guilt, and dread continues on, as a quiet death within me permeates. I speak to my daughter daily, if only in my mind.
The soothing music in the background, the burning candles, and the comfort of a maroon shawl surround the many sleepless nights of my grieving. Photographs and visual memories of your flesh, your energy, and your breathtaking smile appear in the corner of my mind, as the wick from the candle illuminates the dark room. As I sip my cup of Vanilla Chai tea, your favorite evening pleasure, I quietly wipe my tears as I stare at the light with memories drifting in and out— from childhood woes to witnessing a mature woman evolving through the disparity of life.
The quiet absence of your energy, whether by phone or in person, leaves me empty every day with endless sorrow. My amputated limbs leave my body with an empty shell. I fear that I will not feel life, as I have known it. The past is now a dream, as I have crossed over to the other side. And although I am still here on earth, I can never relive that lifeline between you and me, even though I know in my heart that the imaginary cord will always unite us.
I will always carry your voice, your passions, your incredible love for your friends and your family, for you just got it: the true meaning of life before most of us ever did. I will carry you on my shoulder for a lifetime. We are simply better people because your human spirit has taught us so much about life.
It has been several months since Lauren’s passing and time has given us periods of normalcy, although, as my husband has said, we have had to create a new normal. I must have the courage to go on, not only for myself but more importantly, for my husband and our other daughter. We all wear a silver chain bracelet with “COURAGE” engraved on one side and “LAUREN 08” on the other side. Lauren’s courage inspires us, as she would so not want us to suffer.
My memories of her coming home, to our bed parties with her favorite foods, to reading magazines and studying fashion together, remind me of a girl stirring with delight. Tea parties and back scratching went along with watching old Richard Gere movies (especially Pretty Woman, Autumn in New York, and An Officer and a Gentleman) or Grey’s Anatomy. Laughing, once again at the movie Romy and Michele or commenting on each young celebrity and their dramatic life. Eating salmon with veggies drenched in olive oil, or eating endless bowls of my homemade soups; these memories put a smile on my face every time. Listening to her favorite singer, Ray LaMontagne stirs our souls. I hope the light of her memories overshadows the darkness of her passing.
Her Bohemian style of dress, similar to a French savvy woman, had a unique style of its own, with wrapped-around colorful scarves and gypsy-style skirts, yet I envision her donning a T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Lauren walked with poise and dignity, even when she had her long, flowing, chestnut hair in a ponytail under a cap and wearing sweats.
Our endless conversations about the latest spiritual book or a profound weekend movie were moving to both of us. Sometimes a report on a weekend of lectures from well-known sages contributed to her bank of knowledge. I will miss the intimate dance of meaningful conversations that comes from trust and love. I will miss the give-and-take of sharing our human side when we would often hide from the real world.
I hope that Lauren is with nature—she so loved the fragrant, gardenia and jasmine flowers, willowing trees, and the ocean’s waves. Lauren loved fairies, and we have a statue of a fairy reading a book that looks a lot like her, sitting in our garden. We also have a bird feeder, with hummingbirds flying to it daily as we greet Lauren’s spirit.
But most of all, I think being of service to others gave her the greatest joy. Perhaps after helping many, she continues to help a new breed of needy souls, in another land, or on another plane. Why else would her life have ended so abruptly?
Many times, growing up, we made visual memories by closing our eyes during special times, like when we brought a new kitten home or moved into a new house. My soul is depleted, my spirit is broken, but I hang on to that cord, that rope, knowing that I will never relinquish it completely.
There are so many unanswered questions, but I do know one thing: there is no prescription for grieving.
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