Every morning and night I see four toothbrushes in the bathroom cup. Every morning and night I think about the “extra” toothbrush. Maya’s toothbrush. How did a toothbrush become so laden with meaning? It is a little thing, and not. To remove it is to continue the process of removing Maya somehow. Her tye-dye sweatshirt is packed up, her toiletries are put away, her hats and gloves are in storage. With each thing that disappears, a part of Maya disappears, a part of her earthly presence vanishes, just like she did.
I love going into her room, which is intact, and just looking, smelling. Sometimes I smile wide in her presence, sometimes I weep in her absence. It is really not so much about the things, but about the essence of her. Some of the things are gone, but her essence is not. Yet the things hold so much power over me. Every bathroom still has an “extra” toothbrush. Sometimes they bother me and make me angry. Other times not. I try to reconcile the loss of the body, of the physical reminders, and try to understand something I never understood before, some dimension I never had access to before. It is a strange thing to feel like a new pupil at this age, being schooled by my child, in absentia, no less. Humbling indeed.
Italy, 2013
Maya and I used to have a lot of laughs mocking gurus and followers of all flavors. Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, and Muslims; no one was sacred. She had a hilarious chant that she did. When I said something “profound” she would make a funny voice and rattle off a deity from each religion and bless me. She knew how to mock. I think I taught her that actually, and she turned it right back on me. My comeuppance came quickly with Maya.
In fact, she would be mocking this blog, with all my insights and “deep” thoughts. She would tear me up! And I would laugh and smile; I loved her sense of humor. I wonder why?
The toothbrush is a mundane reminder of my daughter, of all of it, the whole mess. The love, fifteen years of love, and now fifteen weeks of grief, all mixed up inside me. I was thinking tonight about using Maya’s toothbrush. It made me smile.
Dearest Mathew,
Although Maya will forever be with you, her things are all you can physically hold and see to have that added connection to her. Keep her toothbrush and anything else that comforts you, in a special place where you can go to look at or hold, if it can’t stay out in view.
Let me also say that I cry when reading of your journey, as you are so eloquent in spite of your excruciating pain. I deeply admire the work you are doing to understand what’s happening to you. And sharing your journey is most certainly helping many of us to discover our vulnerabilities and ways to cope with them.