Gone
As quickly as she came, she has gone. My baby girl’s heart stopped in the early afternoon of Friday, October 7th, probably in an ambulance—we’re not exactly sure when it happened.
We held her, tightly, for as long as we could. I kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. I held her tightly when they removed things from her mouth and legs that were no longer necessary. I held her tightly when they removed her nasogastric feeding tube. I held her tightly, and hummed, and sang, and held her hand hoping she would hold back. I held her tightly knowing that she wouldn’t.
I wasn’t with her when she was most afraid, when her vitality began to fade, and she looked around with wide-eyed, horrified disbelief. I wasn’t there to offer comfort, to kiss her and hold her tightly. I wasn’t there to tell her how brave she was, how strong she’d been, and how much I didn’t mean things I’d said out of frustration. I wasn’t there to apologize for having taken her continued strength for granted. I wasn’t there for so much, it seems.
I can’t fathom this. Less than 48 hours ago, my beautiful little baby girl was alive and fighting. Less than 48 hours ago, she slept calmly beside her mother, when I walked out the door to go to work. Less than 48 hours ago, I fed her for my last time. Less than 48 hours ago, I was too busy, again, and I can’t remember if she smiled or not.
The silence cuts me.
One of the things that troubles me most is that, some day in the future, these last three months won’t be such a commanding proportion of recent history. They will , with each passing day, become a thinner sliver of those days gone by. I’ve never been here, not like this. I don’t know what to do.
If you care to, I might appreciate your sending a note to muraii @ yahoo dot com.
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