Category Archives: Living without Mack

Honoring Mack

I have learned two truths over the past two, terrible months.

One: There is no magic elixir for the pain of losing a child, and not even time can offer a cure. There is no silver lining in the dark and gloomy storm cloud under which grieving parents must live the remainder of their lives. There is no solace from the heartache of a mother who loses a cherished daughter.

Two: Realization of permanent sorrow sinks into the frail, human psyche fast and hard, and finding constructive outlets for such unbearable grief is imperative. Savannah, my older daughter, is my primary motive for looking forward into the future. She provides me with an obvious and joyful purpose. But I have also found that setting my sights on a present and a future life that might include—in some small way, at least—my lost younger daughter is as necessary as is pushing air in and out of my lungs. To that end, I have undertaken two very different, but equally important steps.

One: I am writing about my Macko. I am sharing stories about her humor, describing her amazing character, and illustrating the myriad ways in which her generous spirit and sweet heart enhanced my life and touched the lives of the people who knew her. I am keeping her alive in my heart, in my mind, and in my memories, but I have an overwhelming need to put pen to paper. My blog is an important part of my personal journey down this lonely and bumpy road, but it is also one of the ways for me to keep her alive for all of us.

Two: Within hours of getting the terrible news of Mackenzie’s passing, I was determined to establish a scholarship in her honor. She had chosen Truman State University, a little-known liberal arts gem in northern Missouri, as the setting for her growth into a young woman; and it was there that she was blossoming as a writer, as well. Truman was the place where she was preparing for the pursuit of her personal dream to write television shows; and it was immediately obvious to me that establishing a scholarship at Truman to support other aspiring young writers had the power to provide me and her father with some measure of comfort.

With the initial help of the incredible staff of the Truman State University Foundation, the Mackenzie Kathleen McDermott Memorial Scholarship was in place by the time of Mack’s memorial service. We created a $1,000 scholarship for a student majoring or minoring in creative writing in the 2015-16 academic year, and we also created an endowment fund. A $15,000 endowment would ensure an annual scholarship of about $700 and would exist in perpetuity. I was confident that the annual scholarship would quickly be funded, but I thought that funding the endowment might take us many years.

I could not have been more wrong. Due to a tremendous, remarkable, and awe-inspiring outpouring of love and the amazing generosity of family, friends, colleagues, teachers, and even the kindness of a few strangers, a deserving student will receive that $1,000 scholarship in 2015. But more incredibly, however, the Mackenzie Kathleen McDermott Memorial Scholarship is fully endowed as well. Just two months after losing our little girl, the people who loved her and the people who care about us have given us the best gift that is possible in the wake of our terrible loss. I have no words to properly express my gratitude. Knowing that the Truman State University Foundation will award a scholarship in Mackenzie’s honor in perpetuity is a comfort. I know that Mack would be happy and proud, because this scholarship is, indeed, a constructive outlet for all of us who loved her so well.

Nearly 100 personal donations came in from California, Colorado, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Kentucky, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, Ohio, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, and Wisconsin. The St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the Illinois Legislative Correspondents Association, the Papers of Abraham Lincoln, and my mother’s small Indiana church all made generous donations. Ruby Tuesdays, Mackenzie’s former employer, donated a percentage of their profits for a special day in Mack’s honor. The Sunrise Rotary Club in Springfield, Illinois—the organization that sponsored the “This I Believe” essay contest for which Mack contributed her winning “Anything Boys Can Do” essay (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Afpjdwf-994&feature=youtu.be) also made a generous donation. I am simply overwhelmed by the contributions of so many people, and I love you all.

I want to extend a special thank you to Christopher Ave, Kevin’s editor at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Not only did he take up a collection of personal donations at the paper, but he also organized a “Music for Mack” fundraiser on November 6. The event was an amazing night of live music (including a very moving performance by cellist James Czyzewski of the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra), good food, great St. Louis beer, and a silent auction. The event raised almost $2,500. I will be eternally grateful to Christopher’s generosity and support. I also want to thank the dear, sweet parents of Mack’s college roommate Meagan Banta-Lewis. Tony Schmitt and Mary Banta-Schmitt made their own generous personal donation to the scholarship fund, but they also spent the evening with us at “Music for Mack.” They provided emotional support and friendship, and then they also purchased many of the best items from the silent auction, including the highest priced item of the evening, a hockey stick signed by the St. Louis Blues players. Tony and Mary have found a special place in my heart now and forever.

So thank you, people. Thank you. And thank you again. This scholarship has brought us some peace. It has been a constructive outlet for my grief. It honors my sweet girl, and it provides a way for her to be with us all forever. But for years and years to come, it will also help students who dream of being writers. And what could be better than helping students achieve their dreams? Mack would love that, and she would give you all one of her famous Big Mack hugs.

Weatherbird     Music for Mack        

The above left image is original art depicting the famous St. Louis Post-Dispatch Weatherbird, drawn especially for the “Music for Mack” event. He’s wearing Truman State purple and cheering for the Bulldogs (for which Mack played golf her freshman year). Tony and Mary went home with this item, too! The flyer at right was used to publicize the event.

We will continue to build the endowment fund to support a self-sustaining annual scholarship of $1,000.(http://www.truman.edu/giving/ways-of-giving/) But no matter what happens going forward, we’ve accomplished something constructive faster than I ever dreamed possible. I would like to give you all one of those famous Big Mack hugs, too.

My Big Pink Bunny

The past fifty-four days of my life have been emotionally, psychologically and physically challenging. My sorrow has frequently consumed me. Each and every day has been a struggle, exhausting every ounce of my emotional, mental and bodily strength. By the time my head hits the pillow each night, I am weary and hollow. My eyes are swollen and empty of tears. My exhaustion brings an easy and mostly peaceful sleep, which is often my only solace. As if the first fifty days without Mack were not difficult enough, the past four days have been devastating. Enduring my first holiday in twenty years without Mack has exacted a particularly damaging toll on my already delicate psyche. My tears have been more numerous and more bitter. I have experienced my first, dreaded angry moments in this terrible grieving process. And in my head I have done battle with some terrifying demons who threaten to steal me away entirely.

mack and me       mack and me 4       Mack and Me 2

Because this holiday weekend was so damned hard for me, I thought I should make an attempt to record it. Since I started this blog, I have spent most of my words sharing stories about Mack’s life and celebrating her incomparable personality and charms. But today I wanted to focus on my pain. On my suffering. On my ruined life. But all afternoon and this evening I just stared at a blinking cursor as it mocked my intentions, questioned my courage, and dared me to expose my heartbroken soul. As I struggled to write a second paragraph about my feelings, no more words were forthcoming. Instead, my mind kept drifting to a ridiculous photograph that Mack texted me a year or two ago. She and her roommates had made a run to the Kirksville Walmart to purchase survival items like Ramen noodles, Gatorade and candy and found themselves in the clothing department trying on adult-sized footie pajamas. In the photo, Mack looks like a deranged pink bunny. When I originally received that photo, I laughed so hard that I cried.

Tonight, thinking about that stupid photo was keeping me from crying. Each time my mind drifted to that image, the corner of my mouth ticked upward in defiance of my purpose to pour out my emotions onto the page. On nearly every day that I ever spent with Mack, she made me laugh. And here she was again trying to make me laugh when I was trying to be serious. Here she was again reminding me that laughing was a whole hell of a lot better than crying. I could hear her imploring me to finish up this hard stuff so that something silly or fun could take its place.

I finally decided that perhaps the one paragraph was all I needed to write. Perhaps those words were the only words necessary. But mostly, I think, Mack’s humor rescued me at the very moment I needed to be rescued. I am still battered and bruised from my first holiday without her, and I will be weary and hollow when my head hits the pillow tonight. But thanks to Mack, I found a way to smile today. And she would be amused to know that help arrived in the form of a big pink bunny.

bunny suit

Thanks for not smiling, Mack

Over the past few weeks, I have sifted through hundreds of pictures of Mackenzie, and all the while as I have paused over each image, I have smiled, I have laughed, and I have sobbed—sometimes exhibiting all three emotions simultaneously. As I have lingered over particular images, I have desperately sought to sear them into my memory. Mack’s adorable freckles, especially the big one on her left cheek, her brown eyes, her dimples, those long limbs, and that crooked little smile are all beautiful reminders to me of her physical appearance and her tangible self. But so many of the pictures also capture her humor, her athleticism, her joy, and her incorrigible determination to thwart all of my best efforts over the years to capture the perfect, smiling photograph of my younger daughter. When Savannah saw a camera, she always sat up straight, engaged me with her eyes, flashed me a dazzling smile, and delivered a beautiful portrait every time. Mack, however, always preferred to ham it up, make a ridiculous face, or strike an absurd pose.

It always drove me nuts that she couldn’t just sit still and smile and let me have my shot. But now I know that she has given me something far greater.

Most all of the writing that I have done so far has spun off of one of those hundreds of images that I have spent so much time with since October 7. All of the photos I have of Mack are precious to me in the same way that childhood photographs are precious to every mother. But the photographs that are inspiring my stories about her, about my life with her, and about my life now without her, are not the ones in which she is smiling perfectly for the camera. Don’t get me wrong, I adore those priceless few images in which she gave in to my wishes. But it is a fact that the photos in which she exerted her own interpretation of the event or activity that I was trying to capture that are the most comforting to me now. I always believed that Mack was just being goofy, that she was deliberating trying to aggravate me, or that she was disrespecting my attempt to capture forever her growing-up years.

Yet in looking at those images now and thinking about the writing that pours out of me as a result of considering those images now, I realize that Mack gave me a special gift. In those goofy photographs, she allowed me to capture her spirit at that moment instead of her pretty smile. She made the photos about her and not me, and she made them about her approach to the situation at hand and not mine. She did not believe that photos were about capturing the perfect smile in every context, but rather they were about capturing the absurdity of a situation, the joy or laughter provoked by a particular moment, setting or event, and about living life and not just posing for it.

Thanks for not smiling (all the time), Mack. I love you for it more than you ever could have believed possible during all of those hundreds of photo shoots when I begged you for a pretty smile.

And now some beautiful examples:

When I asked the girls to pose with the prototype wax Lincoln for the yet to open Lincoln Presidential Museum, I got this…

girls with Lincoln

When I asked Mack to pose with my newly published book, she gave me this…

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When I asked Mack to send me a picture of her Halloween costume one year, I got this…

nerd

When I asked for a picture of summer ball at The Gym, she gave me this…

goofy kid

When she sent me a picture of a kitten she was babysitting at college, this is what I got via text…

kitty

And here is one of the precious few in which she obliged my desire for a pretty smile…

Indiana braids

It’s a Pratt Thing

Tonight, I watched the first Indiana Hoosiers basketball game of the year, and as is typical for me at the beginning of every men’s college basketball season, I was missing my dad. He loved college basketball and was obsessed with the Hoosiers. Since his death in March 2001, I feel the loss of him more keenly at this time of the year. But once the season gets going, I always enjoy the games and feel my dad’s spirit with me. He is in my heart as I happily cheer for our team.

But tonight my heart is much heavier than ever before, and the beginning of this basketball season is far more emotionally painful for me.

Basketball was an important part of Mack’s life. She played the sport for thirteen of her twenty years, and watching her play was one of my greatest joys of being her momma bear. When she was little, she slept with her favorite basketball, dribbled for hours in her room, became an expert at spinning the ball on her fingers, and truly loved the sport. And even though I raised the poor child in Illini country, she became a Hoosier fan, too. As we often said to our numerous Illinois-fan friends, “It’s a Pratt thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

My dad died when Mack was only seven. It was a trivial thing, perhaps, but raising Mack on Hoosier basketball was one way for me to connect her to the grandfather she never had the chance to know. Mack and I always talked about dad’s love for the Hoosiers. In March 2013, Mack made a special trip home from college just so we could watch Indiana in the first weekend of the NCAA tournament together. We talked then about how tickled grandpa would have been at their success and how much we wished he could have shared the fun with us.

Indiana basketball has been one of the simple pleasures of my life. It was a family connection that I cherished. And now I face this college basketball season without my dad and without my precious Macko. Right now in my sorrow, it does not seem possible, but I hope that later in the season I will be able to enjoy some Hoosier hoops. That’s what both of them would wish for me. And if…no, when…that happens, my dad and Mack will be with me in spirit as I cheer for our favorite team.

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I Miss My Macko

I weep for you every day;

My eyes with grief are swollen.

I yearn to change the heavy truth upon me that has fallen.

Some say time can ease my pain;

Some say time will bring me peace.

My heartbreak belies the promise, though, of any such release.

Your joyful soul to me endeared you;

Much good humor and laughter you shared.

And I am a better person, because for you I cared.

Cherished memories of your good life;

Keep pace with my sense of loss so deep.

Our time in life may be past, but your spirit forever I keep.

Get off It, Woman

Today was an emotional day for me. It was harder to focus, harder to be alone at my desk, harder to breathe. There was more pacing today, too. And more getting lost staring at Mack’s photos that are organized around my desk. While looking at one photo of the two of us from the day we moved her to Truman State, I started weeping because I noticed her knees were actually at about the same height as mine but still she towered over me in height. Why hadn’t I ever noticed that before? Whew…breathe. There have been far more tears today than there were yesterday and there were also more numerous and more haunting ghosts in my mind trying to break the steely, determined hold of my eyes on the computer screen. But, 4 p.m. arrived, and I had somehow powered through; and I even accomplished a few tasks, although I am completely exhausted from the effort.

For me, grief is a rollercoaster, and I fucking hate rollercoasters. In seconds I go from breathlessness to anxiety to panic to screaming to crying to waves of nausea. Mack didn’t like rollercoasters either. Motion sickness kept her on the ground while she watched her friends ride; but also, rollercoasters never suited her personality anyway. She favored the ground under her feet. She preferred to be calm and steady and she always, always steered clear of anxiety and panic. She shunned personal drama and despised weepy emotionalism. So while I think she would understand why this rollercoaster is making her mom so miserable, she’d also look me in the eye and say “get off it, woman.”

And so, for the hours that remain of this awful day, I am going to try to do just that.

Macks knees

Finding a New Normal

Today was my first day back to work, and it was tough. I still feel shocked and shattered, and I suppose I also feel kind of guilty for trying to move on with a normal life. Life cannot be normal without Mack, so trying to be normal without her seems disrespectful. Doesn’t it? No, no, no! Of course not. I know that’s not true. It’s just so damn hard to feel that it is false. Mack loved life, and she would want me to keep living. And, the truth is simple: most of the stretches of good hours that I have managed to piece together in the last three weeks have been focusing my mind on things other than my lost daughter. Only when I concentrate on a conversation about the weather or politics, watch a baseball game, or listen to an audio tape of a Harry Potter book can I keep the sorrow at bay. Because for now, when I think about Mack, I cry and lose my breath and the despair devours me.

So, I DO know that I have to find my new normal. I must work. I must focus on something other than the despair. I must stop the self-pity. I must find constructive outlets. I certainly cannot lie around listening to audio tapes of Harry Potter forever. No lies, though, people. This is a rough business making a new normal. Going back to work was hard, and it will continue to be hard for a long, long, long, long time. It is a terrible challenge to focus on work tasks that are far less important to me now than they were on October 6, the last day of my old normal. However, focusing on work will help keep my emotions as calm as is possible now and, ultimately, my hope is that the work will again be rewarding. But today, all work did was to keep me from giving in to my sorrow. I guess that will have to be enough for now.

Mackenzie Kathleen McDermott (March 17, 1994-October 7, 2014)

 

Mackenzie was a beloved daughter and granddaughter, a devoted sister, a favorite cousin, and a loyal best friend to many people who knew her. She possessed a kind and gentle spirit, an uncommon inner peace, a profound sense of social justice, and intellectual curiosity beyond her years. She was never judgmental, hurtful, or boastful. She was a charming comic, a gifted athlete, a passionate lover of all animals, and a blossoming young writer.

She was my sweet, funny, and perfect baby; and for twenty years, I was her doting mother. Raising her and her older sister Savannah is the best work I have ever accomplished; and losing her is the hardest challenge I have ever had to face. In my personal struggle to comprehend my loss and to come to terms with my intense grief, I have created this blog. Through writing, I hope to channel my grief in a positive direction by documenting my sadness, by sharing joy and love through stories of our amazing relationship, and by celebrating her beautiful life.

I called her Mack partly because she was such a tomboy as a kid, but mostly because she always exhibited such admirable inner and outer strength. She called me Momma Bear. While I knew the nickname was her teasing way of challenging my over-protectiveness, I understood that it was also her way of accepting and appreciating my unconditional love for her.

In life, Mack was a total joy. In death, she leaves an enormous hole in my heart. Writing about being her Momma Bear will help me to bridge the gap of love and loss as well as to honor her spirit. In so doing, I will try—-no, I will need—to evoke both her strength and her humor. And, in this process, perhaps there will be some solace and, ultimately, survival.

Mack and Momma Bear on September 7 2014