I remember quite vividly
the first time Scott and I laid eyes on our house.
Was it love at first
sight?
No.
Was it the house of our
dreams?
Not really.
In fact, it was half the
size of our former home. It needed landscaping. And grass.
The baseboards, trim and
doors needed paint. The closets needed rods.
The basement was a blank
slate. The deck a certified health hazard.
But, it was a house in
which our dreams could come true.
Pausing for a moment in
the kitchen during a walk-thru, we saw what this house could be.
What we could
be.
A mom and dad sitting on
the front porch watching our children grow.
And we did that first
summer as three darling children tore through the jungle that was our front
lawn squealing with delight. A water fight ensued. Smiles. On their faces. In
our hearts.
We watched that second
summer too. And listened.
To the sound of a
basketball pounding on the pavement, the front door swinging open and shut as a
little girl’s friends filtered in and out of the house.
We looked and listened
in the fall and the winter.
 |
| A candid from our fall photo shoot. |
But it’s summer again.
And the dreams seem to
have dimmed a little.
Like most people, we
didn't make room in our dreams for cancer.
And when it barged into
our lives we didn't plan on it taking our little girl.
At least not so soon.
***
Six days.
I can account for every
single detail in those six days.
Our 9-year-old looking
at us and saying, "So I have cancer?"
The treatment protocol.
Six to nine months in
and out of the hospital.
The side effects. Hair
loss. Nausea. Mouth sores.
The options: dye your
hair a crazy color, cut it short, or just let it fall out.
Addie's choice: just let
it fall out.
My God, her time in the
hospital wasn't long enough for her hair to even fall out.
The question from my
mother: Are you sure you don't want us to stay tonight?
My response: No, mom,
there will be plenty of nights to stay.
Snuggling up next to Addie
in the hospital bed. Holding her hand.
Pleading with God to
please save my baby girl. Singing her the same lullaby I must’ve sang a
thousand times before. Realizing this time she wasn’t going to wake up.
***
It’s sad really.
As I finish up an
evening walk, I look at the house from the road.
Flowers bloom, toys line
the driveway, little boys chase a kitten or two.
The outside observer –
one not familiar with our story of child loss – may pause for a second as they cruise past
our house and think, “Now there’s a happy home.”
And to them I say, it
was.
Once.
Perhaps it will be again.
Perhaps it will be again.
