As I sit here on this 13th day of September, I of course know this was the beginning of the end. It was one of the last “normal” days we had in the year 2004, and that of course makes me sad, sad, sad. While it wasn’t completely filled with innocent, carefree days as I had already sent your scans and reports to Hopkins, St. Jude and Duke…we had not yet heard back from them yet. So, in that respect, ignorance was bliss. The real fear was about to set in on the 15th…when Duke called back and said “It doesn’t look good. How soon can you get here?”
You feel so far removed from my life, and that is such an awful feeling to carry around. I feel torn between earth and heaven…half of my heart here with your brother, and the other half in the next dimension with you. Only another bereaved parent would have a clue what that feels like, to live your life so torn and never quite complete.
I’ve never asked for exorbitant things or a fancy lifestyle. The things that matter most to me in this lifetime are not things, they are people, specifically you and your brother Noah. I bore two children, and only had hopes to nurture those relationships, or at least maintain those relationships in the physical tense…until I passed away. Not an unrealistic expectation. Not an unreasonable thing to hope for. You were the first person in this lifetime who showed me the meaning of love…who taught me what it is really about. You will always have a very, very special place in my heart for that reason, and so many others.
And as I write this, I feel guilt that I am writing about me. What I lost. When it is you who lost the most…your life, your chance, all the experiences yet in front of you.
I am so glad that you knew nothing but unconditional love your entire life. When you passed away, that is the thought I held onto so often…knowing that you knew and felt unconditional love everyday of your life. I know you had a happy life, a full life-if not a long life. I can feel you now as I sit here with a wet face and tissues close at hand telling me to “breathe in the light, and blow out the darkness.” I remember as you were in the process of transitioning from this lifetime to the next, how you would comfort me with that phrase. That has to be love…to be dying and reaching out to others…all at the tender age of eleven.
This year has been monumental in many ways Olivia. You would be proud of the strides your brother and I have made. Recently, as I had a chance to visit him in the desert of Idaho, I told him you would be proud of him if you were there with him. He is a very, very strong boy Olivia. He corrected me. He told me you are there with him, and you are proud of him! Thank you for walking with him, and keeping your love alive, your presence a part of him.
I want to say how much you mean to me. You are my best girl! As I sit here on this official “National Childhood Cancer Awareness Day”, I am aware. I am very aware of the tragedies of such a disease from the time before diagnosis until the moment it begins to choke the life and breath right of you. I am aware in a way that is different than the majority of cancer moms…thank God for that. And now, I will try to go through my days with an awareness of your love, your presence still within me. It is in a way that is so much less fulfilling, but it is there nonetheless. No one can take that from me. It’s just not how I wanted it, how I imagined it. I wanted your pretty brown eyes, your optimism, your infectious laugh and impeccable character to be something existent in a physical sense each and every day of my life. Yet, the world had different plans for you…something that is so hard for me to wrap my head around.
I love you my Olivia Grace…forever and a day, and that’s not long enough….like Mommy always told you.
