This morning, the Bay Area News Group published my essay about grief during the holiday season:
It happened again. I met a lovely woman who, after chatting a bit, asked me if I had children. A kindness. A nicety. But my mind raced off in a thousand directions before I responded with my usual answer, “Yes, I have two daughters.”
It’s so simple, but polite replies are confounded by the horrifying vision of my older daughter’s death, the agony of 36 young people, the discordant history of the Ghost Ship fire, and the ugly, drawn-out trial. Was this the moment to explain? No.
While I stood there, smiling, listening to the woman tell me about her son and his college exploits, the weight of six years of trauma sank in. I said nothing about that; I’ll never see this woman again, so why bring up the pain?
Parents who have lost children must deal with the demands of normalcy. I’m not always sure how to react. Memories can unexpectedly overwhelm me during mundane social encounters.
The grief is ongoing. Thanksgiving is an especially poignant time for most of the 36 Ghost Ship families. It's the last time we saw our loved ones alive, and their spirits feel especially close because of it. This year, in ongoing grief and gratitude, I embrace the Thanksgiving tradition: I am grateful to now have a dear grandson, and I will always have two beloved daughters.
But I can never forget how one of them and 35 other vibrant young people died in terror on Dec. 2, 2016, in an Oakland warehouse. It’s hard to believe it was that long ago, the shock of it still stings.
It doesn’t help that the trial and its aftermath have dragged on for five years, from the announcement of criminal charges in July 2017 through the 2019 trial that ended with a jury deadlocked 10-2 in favor of convicting master tenant Derick Almena, his 2019 plea deal to 36 counts of involuntary manslaughter, and now his probation violation hearings that will continue next month.
The onset of the holiday season serves as a reminder of the early December night of the fire at that monstrously named Ghost Ship warehouse. There are moments that catch me off guard, when I stare into distant flames, seeing my daughter’s fear-contorted face. Other times, I feel myself sitting motionless once again in a courtroom, listening to lies and legal machinations distorting the true story of those consumed by a raging fire, trapped for eternity. It never goes away.
The holidays deceive with their cheerful glitter and song. I, like other grievers, long for the return of happier times. Holidays just accentuate our loss. Gatherings bring new dangers.
I think every bereaved parent has had run-ins with people who offer up glib responses to our grief. In the first year or two after Chelsea’s death, I raged at phrases like, “She’s in a better place” or “She would want you to …” followed by the insertion of whatever they wanted me to do. It was especially egregious coming from acquaintances who never met her. But now, I simply nod and walk away. This has become my gift to Chelsea, a way of honoring her innate kindness.
Life takes on new meaning when a close loved one dies. In fact, it takes on a shocking reality that infuses each moment with depth and poignancy. Perhaps the best lesson I’ve learned over the past six years is that I don’t need to share my every waking nightmare with people who don’t understand. Small talk is not my friend.
There is a before and after in my life. Dec. 2, 2016, is the demarcation line. At times, I am devastated that humdrum life and holiday celebrations go on despite the devastating loss of 36 souls. At other times, I am profoundly grateful for this gift of life, more precious because it is so fragile.
**************************************************************************************
Colleen Dolan is an education therapist from San Rafael. Her daughter Chelsea, who was also known by her stage name Cherushii, grew up in the Bay Area and had become a San Francisco electronic musician and producer. Chelsea died in the 2016 Ghost Ship warehouse fire that killed 36 people.
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It happened again. I met a lovely woman who, after chatting a bit, asked me if I had children. A kindness. A nicety. But my mind raced off in a thousand directions before I responded with my usual answer, “Yes, I have two daughters.”
It’s so simple, but polite replies are confounded by the horrifying vision of my older daughter’s death, the agony of 36 young people, the discordant history of the Ghost Ship fire, and the ugly, drawn-out trial. Was this the moment to explain? No.
While I stood there, smiling, listening to the woman tell me about her son and his college exploits, the weight of six years of trauma sank in. I said nothing about that; I’ll never see this woman again, so why bring up the pain?
Parents who have lost children must deal with the demands of normalcy. I’m not always sure how to react. Memories can unexpectedly overwhelm me during mundane social encounters.
The grief is ongoing. Thanksgiving is an especially poignant time for most of the 36 Ghost Ship families. It's the last time we saw our loved ones alive, and their spirits feel especially close because of it. This year, in ongoing grief and gratitude, I embrace the Thanksgiving tradition: I am grateful to now have a dear grandson, and I will always have two beloved daughters.
But I can never forget how one of them and 35 other vibrant young people died in terror on Dec. 2, 2016, in an Oakland warehouse. It’s hard to believe it was that long ago, the shock of it still stings.
It doesn’t help that the trial and its aftermath have dragged on for five years, from the announcement of criminal charges in July 2017 through the 2019 trial that ended with a jury deadlocked 10-2 in favor of convicting master tenant Derick Almena, his 2019 plea deal to 36 counts of involuntary manslaughter, and now his probation violation hearings that will continue next month.
The onset of the holiday season serves as a reminder of the early December night of the fire at that monstrously named Ghost Ship warehouse. There are moments that catch me off guard, when I stare into distant flames, seeing my daughter’s fear-contorted face. Other times, I feel myself sitting motionless once again in a courtroom, listening to lies and legal machinations distorting the true story of those consumed by a raging fire, trapped for eternity. It never goes away.
The holidays deceive with their cheerful glitter and song. I, like other grievers, long for the return of happier times. Holidays just accentuate our loss. Gatherings bring new dangers.
I think every bereaved parent has had run-ins with people who offer up glib responses to our grief. In the first year or two after Chelsea’s death, I raged at phrases like, “She’s in a better place” or “She would want you to …” followed by the insertion of whatever they wanted me to do. It was especially egregious coming from acquaintances who never met her. But now, I simply nod and walk away. This has become my gift to Chelsea, a way of honoring her innate kindness.
Life takes on new meaning when a close loved one dies. In fact, it takes on a shocking reality that infuses each moment with depth and poignancy. Perhaps the best lesson I’ve learned over the past six years is that I don’t need to share my every waking nightmare with people who don’t understand. Small talk is not my friend.
There is a before and after in my life. Dec. 2, 2016, is the demarcation line. At times, I am devastated that humdrum life and holiday celebrations go on despite the devastating loss of 36 souls. At other times, I am profoundly grateful for this gift of life, more precious because it is so fragile.
**************************************************************************************
Colleen Dolan is an education therapist from San Rafael. Her daughter Chelsea, who was also known by her stage name Cherushii, grew up in the Bay Area and had become a San Francisco electronic musician and producer. Chelsea died in the 2016 Ghost Ship warehouse fire that killed 36 people.
bayareanewsgroup.com
Over 5 million engaged readers weekly
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