Release

Late April 2020. Death and dying around us. Death in our home. Death in my arms.

So with the sting of death, and the crush that C-vid brought to the entire country, we decided to have Isabella cremated. It was what we felt was best for us at that moment. And really, that is all we can ever ask of ourselves- “what is the best choice I can make here, and now with what I know?” I think we often judge ourselves too harshly, wondering what will other people think?? (I am the worst at this.) We can often find ourselves spiraling down the negative head space of “what if I regret this decision in a month? In a year? What if someone shames me, OR I let someone down….? What if, what if, what if?

Open up your hands and let that go. You are doing the best you can with what you know today.

Mike and I knew our daughter better than anyone else. We knew what was best for our family in this very surreal, tragic story, where we had to decide what to do with our daughters body. During C-vid, when funerals, ceremonies and gatherings for ANY reason were not allowed.

When we drove to the funeral home that had taken Isabella’s body I got out my phone to call and tell them we had arrived. At that time they did not allow anyone inside the building and we had been instructed to remain in our car. I dialed the number. I looked at the phone. I couldn’t call.

I could not physically press SEND and put the phone to my ear. As I considered my conversation and gathered my thoughts, there was no way I could even form the words, “Hello I am here to get the remains of my deceased daughter Isabella Joy Caballero.” I sobbed.

I just gave the phone to Mike and sat there, head in my hands.

This was trauma. This was something most people will never have to experience.

The masked woman brought out Isabella’s ashes in a tiny box and handed them to us through the car window and said, “I’m sorry. I am so very sorry.”

…..

For months we kept her ashes in a simple, handmade urn purchased through ETSY: white with pink accents and her name stamped on the front.

I knew my baby girl was not in those bits of dust. She was on the other side of this thing. She had come, taught us all so much, and heaven was now her home. But keeping the very few things we had that reminded us of her, helped us remember. Helped us stay close.

A blanket, a stuffed animal, a prayer shaw, a swaddle and her remains.

But, I wanted to physically release that girl. I never truly believed that keeping ashes in an urn would keep her any closer to me, but it was a process.

So, when Mike and I decided to elope to Maine in October 2021, I could’t think of a more beautiful way to honor her short, but impactful life than to release her ashes on the coast the day we were married.

But, even taking her ashes in my purse on the plane was nauseating. This is not something I should have ever had to do. I was nervous the airlines or security checkpoints would stop me with questions – but no-one ever did.

So that girl made it to Maine with us sealed in a tiny plastic bag with a silver charm that denoted the crematory that had provided the ashes.

The morning of our marriage we headed to the coast of Baileys Island where we were staying in our quaint coastal cottage. We explored the rocky shoreline, completed our vows, and decided to let our girl go.

Each of us with handfuls of ashes looked at one another. “How do I do this,” I asked Mike. “We just do it. You are doing it.” It’s not something you ever envision, releasing the ashes of your child into the wind. Letting them swirl into the breeze. Blowing out into the Atlantic Ocean.

Just opening our hands. Letting go. Doing the best with what we know today.

Sure there were days prior, weeks even, where considering letting go of what had been my very own daughter pierced me. But somewhere inside I knew releasing this very precious thing, would provide so much peace.

Loosening my grip, palms face up and saying, “I can’t.” Reaching for something bigger than me. Bigger than death. Surrendering. Our sense of control, of directing this thing, of steering the ship. It is not ours to orchestrate, anyway. It never was.

I could not change a second of Isabella’s story. BUT, I could decide to love her well. And when the time came, to let her go.

Releasing is so very brave. Letting go of what you’re hanging onto, the very thing you want so badly, seems irrational. How will it ever be okay?

Releasing does not mean moving on. Releasing allows us to take a posture to receive.