I was sitting in my bed last night, just zoned out. Emotional, after being back with my husband after 6 days away with the girls. He stirred up so many emotions in me. But there it all hung, unsaid… There was so much that only he would understand, but I just couldn’t speak, because my thoughts would ruin his night. So I smiled… and played nice. But I could not move past it.
These thoughts stayed with me, all night. The day Katherine passed. Her face when I found her struggling in her final hours. Her continued struggle to let go at 7 years old. Her fight to not die like this, and to give in to her own struggling bodies demands. I sit in the bed she was dying in, and I feel like it’s a million miles away from here. It feels so unreal. Did it happen right here? When was she in my room? Who carried her weak dying body from the bedroom to the living room? Who was with us as she died? Recalling their faces. Have I thanked them? Did she wake up again after that final struggle? So many things I don’t remember… SO many things I can’t pull out of my brain. I just want to rip it out of my body and punt it across a field. I can’t make it stop. Knowing now that she was dying, and so many things were left unsaid. What was the last things she heard. What the hell were they? Did she feel enough before she slipped away? At the time I didn’t see these as her final hours. Maybe I refused to. Maybe it was too much mentally. I realized so much too late. Everything I said to her beyond those final moments was more than likely not heard… She was gone. I missed my chance. I know that now. The one thing I swore not to do for 12 months. I planned to say so much and only very few things got the time they needed. For 12 months I planned to not miss a word as my child was dying. To be there mentally, and emotionally for her. She was trying to tell me in her own way before she passed, and with her eyes, that she was going. So many things. “Mom please stop the pain, mom please tell me it’s going to be ok, mom what do I do…” I missed it all. I just wanted the confusion and suffering to stop, so I gave her the things you give to stop it, and she slipped into her comatose state. Forever gone even before she stopped breathing, and her little heart stopped beating.
Katie’s 8th birthday is this Sunday. I can’t think… my brain is fried. Anyone I’ve spoken to today isn’t getting coherent and complete sentences. We’ve lost Parker. This has brought up so many pre-existing regrets for me, and my only advice I could give was “say what you need to say now. Say it and don’t hold back. Ask questions. Ask him everything… before it’s too late.” My regrets brought onto them. I am so sorry for how little I could support them. Welcome to a hell worse than 12 months of a diagnosis and a 0% survival rate. Welcome to the hell of living without your child. Let me introduce you to your new best friends… regret and sorrow. They can take the spare bedroom, will get up bright and early, and do not need a wakeup call.
“I can see the sun settin’. It’s casting shadows on the sea. I can see the sun, its setting. It’s getting colder, starting to freeze.” – Dallas Green

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