21 Days

daisy-reducedMy baby is gone.  She is gone.  Bug didn’t survive the surgery to remove the choroid plexus papilloma that she had in her brain.  My 14-month-old baby is gone.  In the time I had between the moment I found out about the tumor and the day of the surgery, my mind went crazy with possible outcomes, all of them scary.  But no matter how bad or how frightening these imagined outcomes were, she came out of that operating room. I didn’t know that the last kiss I gave her could have been the last kiss I’ll ever give her.  Everyone was so confident that she would do so well.  It was blessing she fell.  We caught it before it started causing problems.  She’s young so she will recover easily.  I borrowed that confidence.  I believed in it.  My baby was coming back to me. No one would let us believe that she will be OK if it weren’t true!  The doctor said, if all goes well she could be home as early as Sunday! But that’s not what happened.  21 days after my baby bumped her head, she was gone.

In the minutes, hours, days, weeks following her death I have been doing my best not to lose my mind.  The pain gets worse every day.  There is a hole inside me and each day that passes without Bug, that hole gets a little deeper, a little wider, a little darker.  The pain of losing a child has no name.   It is never-ending.  It is ever-growing. It is all-consuming. There is no getting over this.  There is no wrapping your head around this.  There is no living your life around this.   This pain, this anguish is a part of me now.  I will have it every day for the rest of life.  That idea is hard for me to grasp and I am living it.  I still have a hard time believing this is real.  Maybe by some chance  a mistake was made, or this is all a bad dream.  But every morning, I wake up with the shattered bits of myself that can never and will never be repaired.




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