We entered the woods, and I pointed out a bird. I led the group through the series of questions one asks regarding the bird’s size, shape, markings, behavior, and habitat. Armed with the answers, I said, we could identify the bird. Then I asked if anyone knew the name of this bird. Mariah tugged on the leg of my pants and asked, very quietly, “Is that a white-breasted nuthatch?” though she knew perfectly well that it was. I turned her by her shoulders to face the group and asked her to tell everyone what she’d just told me; but, I said, leave the question mark off the end.

Mariah and her mom became regulars on our walks. I invited them one night, when she was still about seven, to a lecture about owls. There, she gently corrected the lecturer on one point he’d gotten wrong. She did it during a break, to avoid embarrassing him. He was an expert, and he had written books about raptors. When he took up the lecture again, he announced that he stood corrected on the point, and he asked Mariah to raise her hand so that we all could thank her.

Mariah presented me with a calendar she’d created–each month with a watercolor she’d painted of a different bird. I’ve treasured it, and I was thankful to be able to save it from a house fire. It took on a little water, but it’s still in fine shape.

I lost touch with Mariah and her mom. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I learned of her death. Mary called to tell me. I offered to send her the calendar. But was called away from the phone, but she said she’d call back to give me her address. She hasn’t done so, and I can only guess at why, though it’s not too hard to imagine. Still, I would like her to have it, for when she’s ready. If anyone is close enough to Mary and might know when the time would be right, please contact me.
jeff.deitchman@verizon.net

I learned from a similar experience that grieving becomes like keeping vigil, a final way of remaining in company with the departed. It’s so hard to leave and turn back to all the other demands of one’s ongoing, crowded life. Writing down memories is a good way to capture them before they fade while also allowing other cares, other loves to lead you back into company with the living. You can return to the memories whenever you need to. And perhaps others can gain insight from them as well.

The months you devoted to Mariah’s recovery will always be the most intense, most significant period in your life. It’s probably too much to expect ever to make sense of everything that happened, but honoring these experiences and emotions is profoundly meaningful work.

Mariah’s earthly life may be over, but the love you shared lives on, and the impact of her life will continue to emerge in new and surprising ways.

I hope that, in time, you and your family will add new memories — stories shared by people touched by Mariah’s life, new family members who wear her smile, and people inspired by your refusal to give up hope. I’m one, and I’m sure there are many others.

Good wishes to you and your family!

Poem:
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

I’m so very sorry to hear about Mariah – I only found out today, half a year later, after seeing a link to your blog on a college friend’s facebook page, and wish I could have known and been in touch with you earlier.

I was Mariah’s sophomore year college roommate at the Oldenborg language dorm. She was always, in those days, an incredibly spirited and energetic girl with a love for sports, outdoors activities and the adventure of meeting new people and trying new things around L.A. in general, so I can imagine how hard it must have been for her to feel so limited after her stroke. We weren’t in touch much after college ended, just an occasional e-mail, but I have so many great memories of our fun and friendship at Pomona, especially that year in the German hall. I also have a whole lot of photos – both of her, and ones she took of our hallmates – from that year. If you think it would be joyful, rather than painful, to see some of these pictures of Mariah’s time at Pomona, I’d love to send you copies and tell you some of the memories behind them. Just send me an e-mail and let me know (Aemiliasapiens@yahoo.com).

Leah

I don’t know what it is about this week but I’ve been thinking about Mariah a lot. I was very sad to see your last post, Clay. I hope things have gotten a little easier every day. It did make me think about when I was working with Mariah on her speech (bear with me for the leap this may take). No matter how understandable she was with her speech, her main complaint was how effortful it was. It made me think that really everything in life that is worth anything takes effort. Even the things you think shouldn’t, sometimes require great effort, like love and faith. I imagine it takes EXCESSIVE amounts of effort to beat addiction and maybe even more to fight that monster in times of crisis and I highly applaud you for that. I think Mariah lived with effort everyday as you all do now. I think with all of your help she found ways to reduce the perception of that effort with love and laughter. I hope you can all do the same. That is how I think of her now. Laughing.

One of our early speech tasks was for her to create a lengthier sentence with the starter phrase I would give her. One of those was ” I want…” I thought she’d give me some lengthy, complicated thought and then she said ” I want a pony!” It just struck us both as so funny and it found it’s way in most sessions. Still today I picture that big loud laugh of hers and that big smile. I hope that mental picture can give you the smile it often gives me.

Miss all of you!
Heidi

Sincerely,
Suzie

We have never met and I hadn’t seen Mariah for at least a year when she had her stroke. I was a Vet Corps colleague of hers. I still think of her often and checked in on the website today. While I can only imagine what Mariah went through and what you and your family continue to go through, and quite honestly I’m not sure if my small note will help or harm that process, I want you to know that you are in my thoughts and my heart. Your honesty and courage inspire me – just as Mariah did and does.

Please know that you and your dad have touched the lives of others in immeasurable ways over the past almost 2 years now – even those that you have never met. I am very grateful for your hope in tomorrow.

Here is to your strength and your loving heart!
Sincerely,
Jamie