But I can't write about that now. It's too soon, and the image haunts me.
Instead, I'll write about her spirit, her laughter, and her love.
My little girl was born on March 1, and the weather was absolutely freezing when we brought her home. She had a red, unhappy newborn face with a shock of black, thick hair topping her tiny head. I was so amazed and stunned from the birth, I was...well, in shock because that little life was the one banging into my stomach and pressing down on my bladder. I was so tired (the MS raging war against my brain tissue did not like childbirth too much and needed to sleep) and so was she.
She laid down on my chest and eventually the crowd thinned. The nurse laid her down in a little baby-sized bed next to mine, and we slept for what seemed like days. She didn't even wake up to eat--the nurse had to come in and wake us both up!
It took a while for me to realize exactly how miraculous my child really was. We (my ex-husband and I) lived in a college apartment (even though I was 32 when she was born) and we constantly had to complain to the upstairs neighbors about shutting up about how drunk they were at 3 a.m. so we could sleep. But I always kept her sleeping right beside me, on my chest, or sometimes in the crib, but with me at first. She was mine from the very beginning--her eyes were dark blue then brown, her hair straight, then curly and dark and beautiful as she aged.
Her curiosity astounded and impressed me. She always asked me questions about things, sometimes things I was squeamish about discussing (birds and bees, of course, among other things). And somehow the look in her eyes and the wonder in her face prompted me to just answer her, as honestly as I knew how, and tell her the age-appropriate truth.
She made me a better person. I stopped smoking as soon as I could after I learned I was pregnant, and after she was born, I knew what I had to do: I had to take care of her. That was my mission in life, and none could have been better. When I was having trouble breastfeeding, I cried as I fed her a bottle of formula. She fell fast asleep, and I was enveloped with relief, sadness, and joy all in the same minute.
It felt similar to what I have been feeling since her death, but now, the sadness is sometimes overwhelming, and everything is much more surreal and hard to believe. I can't believe I lost the love of my life to this horrible illness, and I can't believe there is nothing I can do about it. I expect her to walk into the room, I think I hear her voice, I repeat nightly rituals that I used to do with her to other people.
"Good night, love you, see you in the morning" was a code from me to her: it's time to go to bed, go to sleep, stay in your bed, no yelling for me after this, and I'll see you tomorrow. Tonight, I said that to my father, at whose house I'm residing in the wake of this tragedy, and I almost cried after I realized what I had just said.
I long for her. I love her still. But I Have to remember: remember her LIFE, because she was the poster child for letting people see who she really was. She had little fear, my diva/dancer/performer/artist/reader/reluctantmathstudent, and I was and am inspired by her every day.
