Our Next Move

Note: This is the 13th and final update I made to Addison's CarePages site. 

Posted Jul 30, 2012 10:25am

Four months and four days have passed since we joined the club no parent ever wants to be a member of.

Birthdays have come and gone.

School dismissed for the summer.

We survived Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Barely.

And yesterday Isaac and I went on our first back-to-school shopping excursion. By excursion I mean a trip to Amigo's, Target, and Famous Footwear. (Soooo different from Addie and my annual event)

That must mean school is right around the corner.

Four months and four days have passed.

Time marches on. But how?

Today I realize it’s time for me to move my writing from the CarePages site to the blog I created when we first started our country adventure two years ago. After all, nobody visits CarePages to find out how a family is doing after the hospital stay comes to an end.

So, if you want to see how our story develops, feel free to follow us at www.halfwaybetweenhopesanddreams.blogspot.com. If you take the time to peruse previous entries, you’ll notice a much different picture of our family emerges.

My last post was December.

Before.

As a former English teacher I spent time teaching kids about the tone of a story and the voice of a writer. It doesn’t take an A+ student to realize the tone of our story has changed as has my voice.

After.

Hopefully I can provide a little insight as to how one family is handling the worst life can throw at them. I can’t promise it will always be pretty. Grief can be a dark, dark place. So, if you’re not up for it, I understand.

In time, however, I look for a story of hope to emerge. I cling to that possibility.

I can't promise I'll be the most consistent about posting either. Some days I write at a frenetic pace. I couldn't stop the words if I wanted to. Other days? Nothing.

If I understand correctly, you can subscribe to that website and email notifications will go directly to your inbox much like they do on CarePages. You’d have to ask one of my three followers for the details on that. (insert smiley face)

For now, I do want you all to know how much we appreciate the support you’ve shown us thus far. Whether it was a visit in the hospital, a note to Addie, a donation to the humane society, a meal, a hug, an ear, we are so grateful to have each of you in our lives.

www.halfwaybetweenhopesanddreams.blogspot.com

Light Bulbs & Life's Not-So-Little Mysteries

Note: This is the 12th update I made to Addison's CarePages site. In this entry I announce my pregnancy. A local reporter said it best when she wrote, "a heartbeat where there was so much heartache." 

Posted Jun 21, 2012 9:33am

In the weeks following Addie’s death, I cursed the sun.

How dare it shine when my world is falling apart?

I cursed the roses in my garden, the daylilies too, and especially, the $7 plant that I rescued from a Wal-Mart parking lot last summer.

It could barely hold up its head last year.

This year, it’s thriving.

How can I nurse back to health a scraggly plant that I could give two cares about, but my daughter? No.

I cursed the light bulb in our bathroom. Still do, actually.

The same darn light bulb that we’ve never had to change in the two years we’ve lived here.

It continues to shine.

So I’ve lost a child and gained a wee bit of crazy.

Whatever.

Here’s something else I’ve gained.

Knowledge.

The knowledge that life goes on even though we really don’t want it to.

Summer activities have resumed.

Softball. Swimming. And Saturday night, the sound of fireworks somewhere in our neighborhood.

Birthdays have come and gone.

First Tripp, then me, Isaac, and this past weekend, Scott.

And perhaps the cruelest reminder of them all, my belly continues to grow.

Oh yes, did I forget to mention that?

The same day Addie got sick – that beautiful day of sun and softball out in the front yard – we found out we were expecting our fourth child.

So, while Addie, Isaac, and Tripp busied themselves around the house, Scott and I sat in disbelief on our sectional down in the basement, trading thoughts on the changes that would need to take place this fall.

Sleeping arrangements (we have a three-bedroom house).

Baby gear (we sold it all at the garage sale).

Daycare (we’ll have three in daycare).

These are the things we worried about.

And then Addie got sick.

But not to worry, it’s a viral infection, doctors said.

Let it run its course.

Over the next few days we did just that.

But at the same time, I also did a few things any other pregnant woman would do.

Take another test (and another one after that).

Call David’s Bridal and discreetly ask if they’ll be able to do anything with the bridesmaid dress I’m supposed to wear in four months. And then ask that they call my cell (not my home number) with their answer so my mom who’s home with my 9 year old doesn’t find out I’m pregnant (just yet).

Call around to find an OB in Lincoln, but quickly get frustrated that a couple of the doctors wouldn’t do appointments after 2:30 in the afternoon. Who can be gone from school that much?

Google “is it safe to run while pregnant” and find out that it is OK as long as you keep an eye on your heart rate. Continue to run and monitor up until the day we find out that Addie’s illness most definitely is not a viral infection.

It’s Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

And it’s going to take her life.

So while we’ve been fumbling our way through this bottomless pit of grief, asking day in and day out:

"Why Addie?"

“Why our sweet daughter?”

“Why, why, why?”

We’ve also been wondering why a baby and why now.

Apparently, life goes on.

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.

The Day Addie Got Sick

Note: This was the eighth update I made to Addison's CarePages site. Certainly God must've gotten this all wrong. I'm still here and she's gone. It's been over a week. And so began the telling and the re-telling of our story. I've turned it over in my mind at least a thousand times, desperately hoping for a different outcome. 

It never changes.

Posted Apr 5, 2012 2:41pm

The day Addie got sick, I went to Target.

I picked up a couple of shirts for Isaac, some Easter decorations, and Starburst candy for the kids.

I know this because I still have the receipt tucked in my purse.

An after-school trip to Target was a break from my typical Wednesday afternoon routine. On a normal Wednesday, you’d find me dashing out the doors at Waverly Intermediate School, zipping down 148th Street, and making my way back to Syracuse in time to pick up the boys from daycare and Addie from BeLoved. But not this Wednesday.

Scott had an audit scheduled for that day, it went quicker than expected, and he would beat me home. So, sure, go ahead and go to Target.

The day Addie got sick, she enjoyed a trip to the park with her BeLoved friends. I know this because I have a photograph to prove it. I’ve studied the photograph carefully, scanning her face for a trace of the illness that was going to steal her from us. You know what? She looks like every other kid down at the park that day – except she’s wearing a brand-new shirt. I know this because I remember giving it to her that morning.

It was supposed to be unseasonably warm that day, so yes, Addie, you can wear shorts. As we dug through last summer’s clothes, we seemed to be coming up empty in the shirt department. So I went to my bedroom, fished a shirt out of an Old Navy bag and said, “Here, wear this. It’s an early birthday present.”

The day Addie got sick, she and Scott, Isaac, Tripp, plus a neighbor kid or two played softball in the front yard. I know this because I grabbed my camera to snap a few pics. OK, mainly I wanted to snap a picture of Tripp in the pink boots, but I got one of Addie too. You can’t see her face, but she’s holding the bat and looking off in the distance (watching her dad or Isaac chase after a hit).

The day Addie got sick, I decided to take her to the ER. The bill came today.

So now I have all these reminders of just how normal our life was the day Addie got sick.

There was no warning, no indication that in a little over a week, the little girl we love so much would be gone.

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.

Little Pieces

Note: This is the sixth update I made to Addison's CarePages site. At this point I'd made it through one day without my Addie. I remember wishing I could wake up from this horrible nightmare. And, I remember wishing I could fall asleep and never wake up again.

Posted Mar 27, 2012 12:15pm

I know I told more than a few visitors yesterday, "I have no more tears left."

I lied.

Every corner of this house is filled with Addie. Her backpack rests next to the chair right where she left it. Her most recent Sunday School lesson is tucked in the Bible laying on her bed. Hair ties in the bathroom. Craft projects in the playroom. Her birthday list. The makings of a pet hospital. A Laffy Taffy stick dad had bought for her a few days before our world turned upside down.

These pieces of her trigger the tears and twist the knife in my gut just a little bit more. My heart is broken. It aches. I'm the one with the words; my husband isn't. But his face tells the story.

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.

I'll Try Thanksgiving

I didn't cook my first turkey until I was 35 years old.

Hard to believe, isn't it?

Not if you live in our house.

For 35 years I'd done a pretty good job flying under the radar, bringing the green bean casserole and similar side dishes.

But then I decided to host Thanksgiving and pretend I was all grown up.

This involved getting up at 6 a.m. to prepare the bird (one word: gross).

Since this was such a momentous occasion, I convinced my mom (or maybe it was Scott?) to document it on videotape. I could tell you exactly who was behind the camera if I'd take the time to watch the tape. But, I've been off family videos for about a year now. When you're trying to hold it together for the rest of your family, function at work, and convince yourself you can do this, you do everything you can to keep up the facade. And right now that means not watching family videos. At some point I will. When I can schedule in time to fall into a puddle of tears on the floor and not come out of the house for a few days.

Anyway, back to Thanksgiving 2011.

I'm preparing the bird and Addie stumbles out of her room (it's 6 a.m. remember). She takes a look at the turkey, faces the camera and deadpans, "So I guess mom cooks now."

And I guess I don't need a videotape to remember that moment.

That's one memory fixed firmly in my mind.

I relive it often. And it makes me smile.

Laugh.

Cry.

And double over in pain.

That was the first time I cooked a turkey.

And, the last.

Thanksgiving hasn't been all that great the last two years.

Year one was a complete disaster.

I was one week postpartum and eight months out from losing Addie. I wanted nothing to do with Thanksgiving. My family was fractured.

But my mom showed up with something called a turkey loaf (because that's what moms do). She cooked it up, plus a handful of other Thanksgiving side dishes, all the while taking care of Landry and taking care of me. God. Bless. That. Woman.

The timer went off, dinner was served. I took my spot at the table and tears fell right onto the turkey loaf. This was the first time we'd sat at the table as a family without Addie.

We haven't sat down as a family since.

Year two was a bit softer. We went to my mom and dad's house, a house Addie never set foot into, which somehow makes things easier as there isn't a memory lurking around every corner. We had real turkey. It was nice, uneventful.

Now we're on year three.

And I'm trying. Really, I am.

That's the important thing, right?

I bought a turkey. A teeny-tiny 6 pound bird, but a turkey nonetheless. I bought stuffing. And a box of instant potatoes. Corn. A spice cake mix.

I know, I know. It sounds like Thanksgiving out of a box.

But this is progress.

For me.

And then I got sick. Pre-Thanksgiving diet sick.

Perhaps that was a sign.

Thanksgiving was not to be this year.

But I'd started thawing the turkey two days ago.

Aaaaand, it was still frozen as of 9 p.m. last night.

Perhaps another sign?

The turkey's sitting in cold water now.

Guess I'm still trying.

Because that's what moms do.

They try to give their kids Thanksgiving, this holiday they've been learning about at school all week. Our boys need a frame of reference, they need a story similar to the ones their classmates have at school.

So, I try even though Thanksgiving at our house is nothing like Thanksgiving at theirs.

I'll give them Thanksgiving.

And I'll keep saying it over and over and over again.

So I guess mom cooks now.

So Here's a Metaphor for Grief (Sorta)

It's no secret I'm a sucker for all things sentimental. You can read more on that here, here, and here.

So when we headed west for Colorado, I just knew I had to pay a visit to the one place that means so much to me and my family. We talk about special places. This place is not just special. It's sacred.

The first time I visited Mirror Lake I couldn't have been more than 10 years old. I suppose if I asked nicely, my mom could probably rustle up a photo or 10 from that vacation. Heck, I wouldn't even have to ask all that nicely. But I really don't think posting a picture of me at 10 years old would be doing anybody any favors (least of all me). Let's just say it was the 80s. There may have been a bad perm, bad glasses, and biker shorts involved. Oh yeah, and an overbite.

Anyway, my dad was always up for an adventure and I guess my little brother and I were too. So, we ended up on a 3.4 mile hike off Wildernest Road.

Technically, it's the Lily Pad Lake Trail and there is a lake covered with lily pads. It's pretty cool and all. But, just a stone's throw on the other side of that lake is a body of water that is absolutely breath-taking.

We call it Mirror Lake.

And here's why:

Now, we've been to Colorado many, many times since that initial hike, and it's safe to say a trip up to Mirror Lake is always on our itinerary. Obviously I'm not the only sentimental person in my family.

But this time it was going to be a little tricky.

I wasn't sure I could handle a trip to Mirror Lake. Not without Addie.

Still, I found myself asking Isaac if he'd like to go on his first trip to Mirror Lake (and hoping that he'd say yes).

He did.

And while we talked about wild animals and forest fires and tree roots and everything else that interests a 7-year-old boy, this hike was also a chance for me to explain to Isaac that it really is possible for mom to be happy and sad at the exact same time. So sad that Addie wasn't there for one more hike, but so happy that Isaac was.

As I've had time to process our trip (especially this hike), I've come to realize this incredibly long and grueling grief journey is kind of like a 3.4 mile hike in the mountains. Only a whole lot longer.

So here we are at the trail head. What you don't see is the ridiculously steep incline that is the first 300 yards of this hike. It is literally an uphill climb.

And that's exactly what grief is like in the early days.

For some, it's a battle to even get out of bed in the morning.

Not for me.

I got out of bed, got the boys dressed, and sent them off to daycare (thank God for daycare).

I could not deal. With anything. With them.

For me it was a battle to get out of the chair. I'd sit there for hours, combing the Internet, looking for answers as the what-if's, the why's, and the what the hell's swirled around in my head.

The only thing that could get me out of the chair was knowing full-well that a little yellow school bus would come tooling down the lane around 3:45 p.m. each day and my daughter would not be getting off. Not that day. Not ever. Knowing this, I would retreat to my bedroom, pull the covers over my head, and wait for the sound of the bus shifting gears to fade away. I did this. Every day.

Then, you return to work. You function. Pay bills. Tuck your kids in at night. Cry. Struggle to fall asleep. Or want nothing more than to fall into your bed and never wake up.

Perhaps you even brave a trip to the grocery store where there's a favorite cereal and favorite snack at the end of every aisle. You wander aimlessly, settling on bread, macaroni, and applesauce.

It was an uphill climb and I'd just as soon stay at the bottom most days.

But somehow you make it to the top of that initial climb, and then, and only then you realize just how far you've come.

There are smiles, even laughs.

Silliness. Selfies.

And sadness.

Still.

And yet, you continue down the path. There are roots and rocks. You must tread carefully. Sometimes, the path is so treacherous, you must reach out and grasp the hand of another, just to make it across.

At times the path is smooth. We relish these times. Walk a little faster. Perhaps we've found a way to cope. We busy ourselves with projects, get lost in a book, organize our pantries, our storage rooms, our garages. Perhaps we've found a way around it all.

And then,we stumble upon rocks and roots and yes, even the occasional uphill climb.

I'm not going to lie. The past six months have been one, gigantic uphill climb.

We must slow down, rest even. Golden Oreos are completely optional (but highly recommended).

And so we continue on this path, with its rocks and its roots. We rest when we must. Reach out for help when we need it.

And when we get a brief reprieve, we must slow down and enjoy the view.

And the people we get to share it with.

All the while remembering those who gave us so much to miss.

We Didn't Plan for Cancer

      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.