When my grief was new, I felt powerless to control it. As it softened, however, I mastered the "trick" of exposing myself to the full brunt of the pain, then cutting it off, as a way of proving to myself that I was "in charge" once more. To experience the pain and not succumb to it was a major victory - a signal that I would survive. Our daughter's death had left her father and me devastated and overcome with feelings of emptiness and despair. She had taken her own fife at age 36, after a year of severe clinical depression. For months afterward, I experienced actual physical pain - an awful "hole" in my chest, wrenching esophageal spasms, and a sudden "electric" jolt each time I realized that she was actually gone.

Like other bereaved parents, I relived events which had led to our daughter's death, wanting desperately to rewrite the outcome. Night worries - circular thinking which accomplished nothing except sleep deprivation - ruled my quiet hours; so I made a conscious effort to interrupt the process with a small radio with earphone jack. Trying to concentrate on boring talk shows seemed to work for me. At first, my radio completed several one-hour cycles before sleep finally, mercifully overtook me. Eventually, however, I became so conditioned (and tired!) that I nodded off almost at a touch of the switch. Chamber music sent me into an alpha state almost instantly,
but the jolt I experienced when the tape was reversed soon drove me to compact discs. Reading grief books helped, but I couldn't concentrate on lighter stuff. I developed a sudden interest in computers, and my new PC and I often spent endless hours in quiet conspiracy - until exhaustion sent me back to bed - and instant nirvana.

Sad memories monopolized my thoughts for a long time, however, for the ones I yearned for were elusive. It seemed that I must choose between reliving excruciating pain and suppressing all thoughts of my child. It was an untenable choice, for we had been close, a vital part of one another's lives. How I missed the warmth of her voice, her smile, and her touch. I was afraid I might forget them.

Then one day several months ago, a young Compassionate Friend and I were discussing her joy in her new daughter, her delight in their blossoming relationship. We spoke of the endearing ways of little children, and suddenly I remembered the "Butterfly Kisses" of Rhonda's childhood. It was a memory that really mattered. I smiled as I told her about those kisses.

Rhonda had been a delightful child. Our friends had often remarked on how "busy" she was, for she could lose herself in the pleasure of a game, a toy or a book for hours on end; and she had little patience for long periods of idleness. Cuddling was often accomplished "on the run" or in those moments of blissful fatigue at naptime or bedtime. One particular loving ritual captivated her, however. She would climb onto my lap and be very, very still so that we could exchange Butterfly Kisses. Butterfly Kisses are fleeting and delicate. They require concentration and deftness, for they are accomplished by brushing the lashes of one eye against another's
cheek - and if you are very small, this takes considerable practice. At first, Rhonda pressed her tiny face tightly against mine and blinked both eyes vigorously; but she soon mastered the moves and was able to flutter her lashes lightly against my cheek. What an accomplishment! I reveled in the quiet joy of those moments.

Here, finally, was a heartwarming image I could summon at will, a vision of complete peace which could rescue me when thoughts of Rhonda's death threatened my serenity or my sleep. It became my security blanket, for when I comforted myself with this lovely memory, other precious, happy ones appeared.

I send you Butterfly Kisses, My Wonderful Daughter, and I will forever feel yours on my cheek. Butterfly