Making Room

I wasn’t expecting this.

It’s been nearly a week since we got home from Disney World, and I am still trying to process the emotions that bubbled up during those four magical days (as well as get caught up on laundry and put my house back together). I expected the typical emotions that so often accompany an occasion that should be filled with joy. I knew that even at the happiest place on earth, I would be sad.

Not Eeyore sad.

Just not head over heels happy.

I’ve come to realize that even on the sunniest of days, it’s going to be a bit cloudy in my heart.

So that’s why the feels I was feeling throughout our trip have me a bit perplexed. Yes, I felt that all-too familiar tug as we entered the park that first day. But on the last day of our trip I was overcome with emotion. Ugly cry emotion.

And here’s why (well, my theory anyway):

I spend a great deal of time and energy holding onto my Addie memories. I play them over and over and over again as a way to keep her here. Present. Somehow within reach. I can’t bear the thought of forgetting one single thing about her, so I replay the conversations, the moments (and not just the big ones). Instead, I get lost in the everyday. The way she’d pull her hair up in a ponytail and smoothe out all the bumps. The way her hands would cup the sugar canister as she walked toward the cereal bowl waiting for her on the kitchen table. The way she’d sit on the edge of our living room chair, waiting for the bus to pull up to our house and take her to school. I can’t let one single moment escape me. And so, I spend so much time keeping those memories safe and secure that I have little room for anything else.

As we got lost in the magic of Magic Kingdom, I realized that there were memories to be made here too. In fact, we were making them. And that I wanted to hold onto those memories just as tightly.

Because I realized that these tender moments are just as fleeting.

Life is fleeting.

We may return to Disney someday. We may not. But I know it won't be the same. We will never experience what we did this past week.

A return trip doesn’t promise that my littlest girl will be smitten with princesses. That one of my boys will ask me to hold him tight. That another will reach for my hand. And hold it.

You only get that once.

I Don't Have Time for Tears Today

I don't have time for tears today.

There's a house to clean. Donations to drop off. Cookies to bake. Smiles to fake. Groceries to buy. Presents to wrap. Laundry to fold. Floors to mop.

All these tasks on my to-do list need doing.

So, I don't have time for tears today.

And yet, they fall anyway.

A Not-So-Simple Question

Note: This is the 11th update I made to Addison's CarePages site. The questions from the boys continue to this day. While they're heartbreaking to hear and sometimes impossible to answer, I hope they never stop.

Posted Jun 12, 2012 8:54am

What color is cancer exactly?

This was the topic of Isaac and my bedtime conversation last night.

Not exactly the typical exchange between a mother and her 5 year old, but nothing seems to be “typical” in our house these days.

“Mom, is cancer red?” he asked.

“No. It doesn’t really have a color.”

Silence.

Which gave my mind a chance to do a little bit of reeling.

Color. Red. Color. Red. Color. Color. Color.

Red.

Suddenly, my mind stopped on the image of a little boy with a smattering of red on his index finger.

His first bloody nose.

Red.

“Isaac,” I asked. “Why do you think cancer would be red?”

Silence.

“That red on your finger was a bloody nose [not cancer].”

And finally, “I just miss Addie so much.”

I know, Isaac. I do too.

This is the “new normal” in our house. The one coined by support groups and counselors and random pages I run across while surfing the Internet. The one that involves a 3 year old promising to take me in his Cozy Coupe to Heaven and God to see Addie. The one that has me (mistakenly) saying “OK.” The one that ends with me telling that 3 year old that we can’t go to Heaven after he sprints into the house yelling to his older brother, “Isaac, we’re going to go see Addie!”

Again, my mistake (and most certainly not the first one I’ve made when we started this journey two and a half months ago).

So, what’s a mother to do?

That’s a great question.

No one gave me a road map for the grieving process and (thankfully) we don’t know too many people who have traveled this lonely road.

So, I guess I do the best I can.

Give ‘em a squeeze and a peck. Tell them I love them. And leave them with the promise that we’ll blow Addie a few more bubbles tomorrow.

Untitled

Note: This is the 10th update I made to Addison's CarePages site. I have to believe I found this treasure when I needed it most.

Posted May 17, 2012 8:53am

Sometimes something comes along just when you need it most.

It’s no secret this week has been particularly tough for me.

I completely underestimated just how awful Mother’s Day could be when the ring leader of all things crafty and sweet isn’t around to make you something, well, crafty and sweet.

The downward spiral continued Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, as the school year came to an end and I realized there wouldn’t be the normal flood of activities to fill our summer calendar.

And then I found another piece of Addie.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Well actually, I was looking for something to wear to work today and since I haven’t exactly gotten around to moving the spring and summer clothes up to our bedroom, I went down to the spare room to rummage through the dresser.

That’s when I saw it.

A piece of drawing paper. Red ink. Addie’s handwriting.

Something I'd never seen before.

This is what it said (you’ll notice I haven’t edited it at all):

I was sitting on the front porch…rocking in the rocking chair. I wondered what I’d do with my life, what that I would be. And I said, I can be anything that I want. Cause this is the Free USA. Land of the free with glory. I can be anything. My mom told me when I was young, you’ve got to believe. Got to believe.

It filled three-fourths of the page and probably wasn't completely finished. Yet to me, it was perfect.

Simple Pleasures

Note: This is the ninth update I made to Addison's CarePages site. I mention something about my clock stopping the day Addie died. It's true. It did stop. It has sense resumed, but our lives have forever been split in two. There's before. And after.

Posted May 15, 2012 9:48pm

Ice cream.

That’s what Addie would’ve raved about today.

Right after she finished bragging about the fact that she was done with school for the year and I still had another week.

Today was the last day of school for Syracuse students.

That would have meant a stop at Jo-Bob’s after school. She started making plans for that about three months ago. Actually, five months ago. You see, when I talk about Addie, it seems my clock stopped sometime around March 26. So, when I say three months ago I mean three months before the day that she died.

So, ice cream is what she would’ve been looking forward to. Vanilla no doubt. Nothing fancy. Just plain vanilla.

That’s just the way she was.

And think back to your childhood. Wouldn’t an ice cream cone have made your day too?

As would the chance to spend some time with friends.

At the pool.*

At the ball field.

At home.

The way it’s supposed to be.

Last summer, our phone rang off the hook. Little girls calling for this and for that. And now, quiet.

Except for the little girl who called a couple of weeks ago. Wrong number.
Normally, I’d be looking forward to summer.

And now, it’s just another thing for us to get through.

*Yet another thing that Addie was plotting for this summer. An “account” at the pool. $20 in that account and she’d be in heaven. Poor choice of words, I know. But anyone who's dropped off a tween at the pool knows that a little bit of money and a little bit of freedom is, in fact, heaven.

Looking In

Note: This is the seventh update I made to Addison's CarePages site. By now she'd been gone four days and I was still here, desperately searching for traces of her. I continue to do that today. Some days I'm lucky enough to find something new. Others, I'll simply pull the Valentine out of her backpack and remember a Wednesday way back when she made it.

Posted Mar 30, 2012 8:14am

These days, I find myself wanting to hold on to every piece of my dear, sweet Addison. That means I've done something mothers really aren't supposed to do. I've started snooping around her room.

And really, what I've found is a window to who my daughter really was.

A journal that details the highlights of a 9 year old's life. "We had basketball practice. My dad's the coach. My number is #1." "It is starting to kinda snow. Yey! I can't wait to build snow forts!" "We have our gingerbread house making tomorrow. Mom is coming. We bought LOTS of candy. We will have so much fun." "We went to the Humane Society 2-day. We played with a dog named Case."

Such joy and excitement for life's simple things. Things that, at the time, seemed so small, but in reality were huge in this little girl's life.

Her reading and language notebooks. One assignment asked students to write about their favorite place. Addison described the cabin. Another asked them to list three things they would wish for if they had the chance. Here's Addison's list:

1. A pot of gold (she was human, you know)
2. A fat hamster
3. For all shelter animals to find a home

Even though it will be difficult to collect her belongings from school, I can't wait to get my hands on more of her writing.

A valentine tucked deep inside her backpack. It was addressed to me and arrived a month and a half late. Somehow in the hustle and bustle of life, that Valentine never made it to my hands. My guess is she made it at BeLoved, the Wednesday night church group she attended.

Wednesdays were always tricky for us. After picking her up at church, we would race home for a quick dinner and then rush off to piano lessons. By the time we got home, the Valentine had long been forgotten. That's OK. I've been pleading for a sign. Maybe this was it.

Uphill

Note: This is the third update I made to Addison's CarePages site. We were in ICU and spent our days talking to Addison and reading the messages people had left for her on the website. I hope with everything I have that she was able to hear each and every word. 

Posted Mar 23, 2012 9:27pm

A couple of weeks ago, Addison and her friend L decided to venture down the road on their bikes. Their destination? G's house just a mile or so up the road. When they reached G's house they spent a couple of hours doing what girls do: playing.

When Addie and L returned to our house, they admitted they were a little tuckered out. Why? Because in order to get to G's house, they had make their way up a hill. It was hard work. The kind of hard work that makes you want to get off your bike and push.

As doctors prepared Addie for another procedure, I talked with her about that hill. It seems she's reached another one just like it. So I asked her to keep working hard to get up that hill. She can pedal, she can push, she can do whatever it takes to get up that hill. Because once she gets to the top, it'll be a lot easier.

Messages to My Baby

Note: This is the first update I made to Addison's CarePages site. It was three days after she was diagnosed with cancer. By now we were in ICU. Doctors had worked hours upon hours to save her and she was alive. A day earlier a doctor had told us she would die. We never saw that doctor again. And on this day we were certain we would prove him wrong. 

Posted Mar 23, 2012 7:11am

"Goodbye, Addie. I love you."

"Love you too."

A simple exchange that happens between Addie and I every morning before school.

Good night, Goosie. I love you."

"Love you too, mom."

A night-time ritual between mother and daughter.

While miles of memories have run through my mind these past few days, it is the daily, every day exchanges that I keep coming back to. Addie has known love and shown love in her nine (almost 10) years. That continues through this challenge. When things were at their worst yesterday, I read 60 cards from her fourth-grade classmates. Why? To show her how much she's loved. I read messages off facebook from friends, family, and people we barely even know. Why? To show her how much she's loved. I surrounded her with various stuffed animals sent from friends and family both near and far. Why? To show her how much she's loved. I passed on the fact that various prayer chains had been activated and that literally thousands of people are pulling and praying for her. Why? To show her how much she's loved.

And so, the conversations continue. Why? I think you know the answer by now. But here's one more reason. One of my aunts relayed a story of a family friend who is an oncology nurse. Of course that's interesting given our current situation. But here's what really caught our attention. When she was 9 years old, this oncology nurse underwent cancer treatments just like Addie. While she too was sedated in the hopes of helping her to forget this trauma, she can recall the messages from loved ones. So our messages continue.

Please keep those messages and the prayers coming. They are absolutely appreciated.

Jamie

A Sacred Space

I've decided to move all of Addison's CarePages entries over to the blog. I'm not sure why really. I guess I feel like I need to have it all together. Safe.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure why I referred to Addie as Addison, her given name, in Paragraph 1. I do that from time to time. When she was here she was Addison to everyone else. Addie to us. Now that she is gone, and we've invited everyone in - through blog entries, through charity runs, through everyday conversation on the street - you've come to know her (and love her, I hope). So, you call her Addie too. And that's fine. In fact, nothing pleases me more than to hear from people who say, "I didn't know Addie, but I feel like I do."

But every once in awhile, I call her Addison. I guess I need to be different every so often. To remind myself that she is mine.

So, I'm asking for extra thoughts as I retrace my steps.

I'm entering a sacred space.

The Last Photo

It's a simple photo, snapped on an unseasonably warm day. March 14 to be exact. On that day - a Wednesday - Scott and Addie and two neighbor kids took advantage of 75-degree temps and tossed the ball around. Took turns hitting it. And just generally enjoyed this gift of a day.

Isaac and Tripp spent the afternoon circling the driveway once, twice, three times on their Cozy Coupes. I spent the afternoon on the World Wide Web, reeling from the results of a positive pregnancy test and introducing myself to an online group of women who were also expecting their fourth child in November. I could have gotten sucked in to all that (let's face it, I probably did) but I could hear the squeals of laughter outside, so I set the laptop aside, grabbed the camera, and I went outside too.

And I took three photos.

Within hours of capturing this moment I sat with Addie in the emergency room at St. Elizabeth's Hospital listening to a doctor tell us this spike in temperature, this pain in her chest, was nothing more than a viral infection and the only thing to do was go home, wait it out, follow up with a doctor two days later. We followed doctor's orders to a T. We waited. We followed up. We took a second doctor's word. Just give it some time, he said. And 12 days later - twelve. days. later. - she was gone.

And I still can't believe it.

But this post isn't about the events that unfolded over the course of those 12 days (which, believe me, I could go on and on and on about and have, trying to make sense of it all). It isn't about how a perfectly healthy girl - healthy enough to toss around a softball on this day and healthy enough to go on a two-mile bike ride the day before that - had the life shaken right out of her.

It isn't about any of that.

It's about a photograph. This photograph.

I had no idea it would be the last photograph.

If I did, would I have composed it differently? Certainly I would have tried to capture her face. I've spent three years going over the details of that face - the spray of freckles across her nose, the way her teeth stairstepped into a smile, the eyebrows that arched perfectly across her brow. I've committed it all to memory so I will never forget.

And the photo I have - the last photo - doesn't even show that beautiful face.

Because never in a million years could I have dreamed it would be my last.

I counted on so many more.

Her birthday was two weeks away. So was the field trip to the state capital and I was slated to go. I'd submitted my sub request and everything. We were making plans. Surely I would have snapped a photo of Addie and her friends in the Rotunda. And a few days later, a pic of those same friends with Addie front and center snuggled up in sleeping bags for a slumber party on our family room floor.

I'd counted on concerts and pictures of Addie in front of the fireplace, all dressed up and ready to go. I'd look at those photographs years from now, in awe of the little girl she once was and the beautiful woman she'd become. I'd wonder where the time went.

I'd counted on team photos. Twelve girls lined up after a basketball game or volleyball game or softball game. Any game.

I'd counted on vacation pictures. Our family of six lined up in front of the Disney castle. On top of a mountain. At the beach.

I'd counted on first day of school pictures. First day of fifth grade. Sixth. And now, seventh.

I'd counted on selfies. Yes, selfies. A tween mugging for the camera, holding up a peace sign. Pictures where I'd flip through her phone or Instagram page and say, "seriously?" But there is no phone. No Instagram. And sadly, no selfies.

Seriously?

I'd counted on so much.

But never, never this.

You've Run Ahead

You are there and I am here and I don't even know where there is.

What it is.

If it's a place at all.

But there are days when I know here and there surely must intersect.

Because I feel it. Know it. Believe it. 

And still it doesn't seem to be enough.

Because you are there and I am here.

Wrong

If everything was right in my world, there would be 12-year-old girl asleep in my basement.

She'd be impossible to wake up in the morning, what with the activities and homework and hormones and all.

There'd be blinds on the window of her bedroom and various beauty products scattered across the top of her bathroom counter. There'd be uniforms to wash, math homework to struggle over, and friends moving in and out of her circle and back in again.

If everything was right in our world, we'd be prepping for our first junior high dance, laying out potential outfits and experimenting with hairstyles, all the while pretending not to care about impressing anyone.

Instead, Scott and I are desperately trying to find a way to escape this weekend, to wrap ourselves in some sort of soft cocoon that surely will protect us until it's safe to come out.

If everything was right in our world.

I've said it before: our axis shifted the day Addie died. Our world will forever be off. And my visions of a pre-teen girl sacked out in her bed stressing over homework (and, let's be honest here, seriously stressing over whether anyone will actually ask her to dance at the dance) are visions that exist only in my mind. They are what I remember from being a 12-year-old girl.

And what I wanted so much for my girl.

Melodies and Memories

It's no secret music can evoke all sorts of memories.

Country music star Eric Church sings about it in his song Springsteen, which, while released in 2011, didn't see much air play until Summer 2012 - after Addie was gone. If you don't believe me on my dates, look it up. After months of not listening to anything but the sound of my own voice asking why, why, why, I found myself driving down the road one day and flipping on the radio and hearing Church sing about the power and pull one song can have.

Funny how a melody sounds like a memory, like a soundtrack to a 
July Saturday Night.

It's true, you know.

Whether it's an opening riff or a refrain we just can't get out of our heads, songs can take us back to another time and another place where, maybe, we were entirely different people.

I know if I hear Juice Newton's Queen of Hearts I'm instantly transported back to 1983. There I sit, wedged between mom and dad in the front seat of our old Pontiac as we wind our way down a mountain road. There's me hitting the rewind button over and over again, listening to the sound of the tape literally spinning and shredding out of control, before giving way to the sweet strums of a guitar.

Anything by the Steve Miller Band and I'm sitting in the back of a bus riding home from a high school track meet. Our faces are sweat-streaked. And wind whips through the windows, stirring up dust and stories that probably shouldn't be repeated.

College brought an eclectic mix of Ace of Base, Offspring, George Strait, and just about any song that was released on a Jock Jams CD. I can call that eclectic, right?

And motherhood? That was marked by Elmo's Favorite Songs I and II, Sheryl Crow, and me and Addie belting out Jackson along with Johnny and June as we drove down Highway 6.

Picture this girl singing I Don't Feel Like Loving You Today
by Gretchen Wilson.

These days my iPhone serves as a time capsule of sorts. I haven't added a whole lot of music since Addie died, partly because, well, how dare the music industry keep cranking out hits when my daughter is gone? And partly because the only reason I even had money in my iTunes account was because Addie didn't have a chance to spend all of the $15 on the iTunes gift card I'd given her for Valentine's Day.

So, as I plug in my ear buds and head off for a run, it's either a pleasant stroll down memory lane or a harrowing walk through a minefield, depending on which songs come up on my playlist.

If I hear the boom, boom, clap, boom de-clap, de-clap of Hannah Montana's Hoedown Throwdown, I'm reminded of a much, much simpler time when Addie and her friends Adiah and Olivia worked through their school talent show routine (and also of a young lady who was known more for her best of both worlds TV show than what she can do with a foam finger).

This is the girl I picture when I hear
anything from High School Musical
or Hannah Montana.

Anything by Adele and I'm running, running, running down the road or on a treadmill when my only reason for running was to shave off a few pounds and stay in shape. And that's what I opted to do on March 19, 2012, the day before Addie's cancer diagnosis. She was getting better. Her fever had gone down. She was going to go back to school the next day, certainly it was OK to steal away for 30 minutes at the fitness center.

So I did.

With ear buds in, I revved up the treadmill. One of Addie's friends came in and joined me. We talked about how Addie was coming back to school tomorrow, how her reading group had made it through the fourth grade book and were ready to move up to the fifth grade one. One of Scott's friends stopped by. We talked about how we really need to get together.

The next time I saw him was in the hospital. He and his wife were one of the many people who came up to offer support, prayers, and whatever it is you offer in times like these. And then, he's in my kitchen, the morning Addie died. He's carrying two sackfuls of bread and everything you would possibly need to make a sandwich and doing whatever it is you do when you don't know what to do.

Music triggers something in each of us. Suddenly everything's crystal clear.

We really need to get together.

We're moving up to the fifth grade book.

She's going back to school tomorrow.

I'm on a treadmill, my daughter - my girl -  is dying. Only I don't know it yet.

Will we ever truly know the impact
of this loss?

My God, skip to the next song.

***

Music, melodies, memories. What song does it for you? And where does it take you?

This is Me Being a Parent

By this time tomorrow, these two lovely ladies (plus a whole other cast of characters) and I will be setting up for the second annual Live Like Addie Run.

I'd like to publicly thank these two for, well, everything, and I'd like to personally thank the 583 people who've already registered for the run. So, if I don't get to speak with you personally tomorrow, please know that I appreciate you coming out for the run so much. I'm continually amazed at the amount of support our friends, our family and this community continues to give to us.

A-mazed.

And that's what this run is really about: Giving back to the community that's been so good to us.

It's about remembering Addie, a little girl who gave us so much to remember.

But for me, it's about a little bit more.

This run is me being a parent.

This run is my basketball tournament on a Sunday afternoon.

My piano lessons.

Orthodontic appointments.

The time I spend typing in registration forms for the run is the time I would've spent staying up all hours of the night with Addie so we could create the perfect volcano for her sixth grade science project.

This is my time spent shopping for birthday presents - for the friend parties she would've been invited to and for the one she'll never have.

This is my "Addie, it's time to get up" each morning and my "I love you" each night.

This is it.

This is me being a parent.

To a child I have to remember through pictures and videos and notes I come across while cleaning out the playroom.

This is me being a parent.

To a child I can hold only in my heart.

This run is me filling my time because, believe it or not, even with wiping and re-wiping runny noses, changing diapers, checking over first grade math homework, curbing meltdowns over ill-fitting socks, intervening in the most irritating of shouting matches, and putting various little ones in time out and to bed, I still find that I have an inordinate amount of time on my hands.

Time that should be taken up by the schedules, the wants and whims of four beautiful children, not three.

And I've got to fill it.

Time.

Or it fills me.

With thoughts I can't escape.

And questions.

It takes me there.

And there. And there.

And I'm there often enough.

So this sitting in on a city council meeting to get the run approved, overhauling a website, putting together a flyer, asking businesses to please display them, going over the details of the run on a Sunday afternoon, sorting through t-shirts, fielding texts and emails from people wondering whether there's still time to register, that's me filling my time.

But mostly, it's me being a parent.

Family Tree

Just a Note: The following piece was written last Christmas, our first Christmas without Addie. I'm choosing to share it this year because it shows a little bit of the growth that's taken place over the past year. And by growth, I mean adjustment. I've added a few thoughts from 2013 plus lots of pictures. Lots.

***

If it were any other year, you can bet our tree would've been trimmed within two hours of clearing the Thanksgiving table. If it were any other year we would've had turkey on Thanksgiving, not turkey loaf. Hey, gotta give props to my mom for trying.

If it were any other year.

But it's 2012, our daughter is gone, and decorating the Christmas tree was the last thing I wanted to do.

So I didn't.

At least not that day.

Considering all that's happened, skipping the tree altogether probably would've been acceptable.

But we have a 5 year old and a 3 year old and the magic of Christmas is alive and well in their hearts.

We have a beautiful pre-lit tree sitting in a couple of totes in our basement. But two sections of the pre-lit tree bit the dust last year and I had to string lights up, down, and around its wire branches.

I figured I'd start working on stringing the lights, the baby would need to be fed, or I'd find myself mentally tapped and there we'd sit. Looking at a half-lit tree with no ornaments on Christmas Eve.

So I ordered a new one.

Waited. Waited. Waited for it to come.

And then it did.

It sat in our doorway for a full five minutes before my mom and I decided to tackle it.

It took about five seconds to assemble, which was good.

And bad.

That meant later that night we were going to have to dig out the decorations.  You know how it is with Christmas ornaments. Each one has a story.

Take this one, for example.

My sixth grade teacher gave it to us on our wedding day 14 years ago. Since all this has happened, I've often wondered about God's commentary on that day.

I picture Him saying, "Here's this couple that's so completely happy, ready for life, poised for the future. And they'll have a great life, but they will suffer a loss. The biggest loss."

Or this one.

The first of our Baby's First Christmas ornaments. Inside is information detailing what we did for Addie's first Christmas.

And this one.

Addie made it in pre-school. I can't even imagine the glittery mess that went into making it.

This one.

We picked it up on a trip to the Nebraska-Colorado game in 2005. We cheered. We won. And had an interesting exchange with some fans before the game.

Another Baby's First Christmas. This one is for Isaac and it's double-sided.

And these creations crafted by the littlest of hands.

This is one of my personal favorites because it has Addie's fingerprints all over it.

A new baby means a new ornament.

And another to show our growing family.

One for Baby Landry.

And one from Addie that we'd never ever seen before.

An ornament to let her know she will be forever loved.

And these from so many people who let us know how much they love us.

And how much they love her.

You know how it is with ornaments. Each one tells a story.

This is our story.

And our story continues (even on days when continuing doesn't seem possible).

With creations crafted by the littlest of hands.

And a love big enough to fill all of our hearts.

Until we meet again.

All over again

If there's one thing I've learned through all of this, the pain never really goes away.

Sometimes it's a dull ache, a tug at your heart when you find yourself in the middle of a pickup game of basketball in the driveway. When your 6 year old asks you to be on his team (the good team, as he calls it) and orders his dad and younger brother to be players on the bad team. You realize this isn't the way the teams should be at all.

It should be boys against girls.

Addie and me (with a little help from Lands) vs. Scott, Isaac and Tripp.

Sometimes the pain is piercing.

A gaggle of girls at the mall. Giggling, smiling, texting. Walking in and out of Justice.

And sometimes the pain is unbearable.

Like when you decide to go through the two-inch medical chart that details the last six days of your daughter's life.

It arrived Saturday.

I'd requested it a few weeks ago, along with Tripp's immunization records for preschool.

Part one arrived last week and included a record of every doctor visit from birth to age 9. I glanced through that stack briefly, settling on a piece of paper from her kindergarten physical.

A-D-D-I-E.

Spelled out in her very best 5-year-old handwriting. And next to her name, a smiley face and a square.

I couldn't help but smile at the smiley face and remember that particular trip to the doctor and our stop at Goodrich dairy after it was all over.

But Saturday's stack wasn't quite so smiley.

Not at all.

First, a form filled out in my handwriting.

How do you know your child is in pain?

"She gets quiet. Tears," I had written.

What concerns does your child have?

"How long we're going to be here."

And there were others too.

Concerns you won't find in any chart.

She wondered what her friends would think. And so, in the early morning hours we went through each friend and considered them one by one. And each one came out as a good friend and good friends don't think anything - except how they can help.

I wondered about the chemo.

And whether I should be in the room when it was administered.

When a nurse comes in wearing nothing short of a haz-mat suit, you do kind of wonder what effects that could have on your unborn child.

And the child that's lying in the hospital bed.

There were concerns about a heart beating way too fast, way too hard. Concerns we voiced.

And then a half-dozen people tearing into her hospital room and me demanding, "What the hell is going on?"

There was the waiting, the waiting, the waiting, for an elevator that seemed to take a million years to get there (when in all actuality it was probably mere seconds).

There was a team of ICU doctors doing the best they could. An intensivist barking out orders, yet functioning as the calm in the storm.

And someone, tapping me on the shoulder, explaining that we could stay here in the hallway or go to the waiting room.

Us. Stranded, our legs in cement.

Blood pressure, dangerously low.

A doctor telling us a machine that would give her heart, her lungs, and kidneys a must-needed rest was our only option.

Making it through the night.

A doctor telling us our child would die.

Our families crumpling inside themselves.

Making it through another night.

And another.

Progress.

Prayers.

Two blinks from my sweet baby girl.

A heart soaring.

And the next day, breaking.

These are the things you won't find in the chart.

It's filled with numbers, either dangerously low or dangerously high. Medical terms I was barely beginning to grasp. Notes. Evidence of the great lengths those doctors and nurses went to in order to save Addie's life.

Two inches worth.

It's up on a shelf now. There if I want to look at it, but in the basement and a little more of a bother to get to.

Sometimes I feel like I need to put my feelings on a shelf. A place to set them while I make lunch, knowing full well they'll be there waiting for me when the table's cleared.

Sometimes I do.

But I'm not sure I'll ever be able to put those six days anywhere.

I sure wish I could.

Because living there, in the thick of it all, I get to feel my heart break all over again.

Up then down

My morning routine goes a little something like this:

Feed the baby.

Put the baby on her play mat, enjoy a gummy smile or two.

Put a few toys in front of her and pop two pieces of toast into the toaster.

Wait.

Fire up the iPad, crack open a Mountain Dew and read through the obituaries.

Because that's normal (the daily reading of the obituaries part).

I think we all know I bid normal adieu 15 months and 1 day ago. Read more about that here, here, here,  and here.

Today when I reached for the iPad something was different.

I picked it up and staring back at me was this beautiful picture of Addie.

Certainly this must be a sign from my sweet, little girl (because looking for signs from your child is totally normal too). We pick up pennies on the street. We pay special attention to the skies. We relish the dreams featuring our children front and center because for that half-second we can see them, hear them, touch them again. For one brief moment, they are ours.

But I didn't intend this post to be about signs.

It's more about how something as sweet and beautiful as a picture of your child can make your heart soar and crumble at the same time.

Because that picture quickly faded to this one.

And then this one.

That's when I realized the slide show was rolling through picture by picture. In chronological order.

We received the iPad as a Christmas gift in December 2011. Addie died in March 2012. For three months there's no arguing it, that iPad was basically Addie's.

And I get reminders in the form of iPad updates all the time.

Scarlett misses you.

Scarlett is Addie's virtual horse, "purchased" the week before diagnosis.

Still listening? Pandora doesn't like playing to an empty room.

The last time we listened to Pandora was in Addie's hospital room the day before she died. According to Pandora, that was 458 days ago. Thanks. Like I needed the reminder.

But this slide show, this chronological record of events that comprised the last three months of my 9-year-old's life, really, really cut deep.

Because there we were - mugging for the camera, cracking ourselves up with the distorted pictures of ourselves, and loving every minute of it.

There was Addie on the couch. Addie by the door. Addie with Bailey. Addie with my mom. Addie with Virginia. Addie with a friend - the day before I took her to the ER.

I looked at each of those last frames carefully, searching for some trace of the monster that came in and took our daughter from us.

There was nothing.

Yet I couldn't help but look beyond the goofy smiles and think about the cancer coursing through her veins, tricking her little body to turn on itself. While oncologists can't pinpoint exactly when this seemingly perfect little girl's cells began their mutation (there is no Stage I, Stage II, Stage III, Stage IV with AML), I have to think that on that afternoon - an afternoon where two girls rode their bikes to a friend's house, lounged lazily on the grass, and returned to our house to dink around on the iPad - the cancer was there.

And that makes me sick.

So while we continued on just like everyone else, enjoying unseasonably warm weather, sorting through the past year's summer clothes, and trying on Easter outfits, we were deliciously unaware that the world that turns so slowly we can't hardly feel it, was going to turn completely upside down (for us anyway).

And sad to say, the iPad is a reminder of just how far our world has tilted.

Because Addie isn't the only one whose pictures are on it.

I see Tripp and Isaac in their brand new superhero costumes, compliments of Santa Claus the same Christmas we received the iPad. Today, Isaac's Spiderman costume is literally hanging on by a thread and Tripp's Captain America costume actually fits. The pants were at least a half-foot too long in 2011, a gross reminder that time has passed and life, no matter how painful, has continued. Kids are growing up, growing out of their clothes.

I see Tripp and Isaac recording messages to Addie in the hospital; Isaac telling her he was going to get her a pretty dinosaur for her birthday, Tripp simply saying, "I love you, Addie."

I see me in the background of those recordings with a smile on my face and hope in my heart.

I remember playing those messages back to her, hoping so desperately that she would hear them and maybe, just maybe.

I realize today I don't hardly recognize the person I once was.

That person is gone and selfish as it may seem I mourn that loss too.

Don't get me wrong. The person left in her place has good days.

There are smiles. Laughs. Superheroes.

And there are days like today.

Where my heart soars and crumbles at the same time.