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Wednesday, September 1, 2010


We're getting back into the swing of things around here. The school routine is almost old hat now. The kids go to bed earlier, we all get up earlier, the bus comes and goes. I take Luke and Cora to school, then pick them back up in what seems like just a few minutes. I will be doing more work while all the kids are in school beginning next week. I had a little stomach bug hit me Monday. Thankfully, I was only really down a day, but I didn't want to chance getting anyone in the medical center sick, so I stayed home this week. In case you have no idea what I'm talking about, our charity, Emma's Hugs, raises money so we can give away parking chips to patients in the Texas Medical Center in Houston. That is what I do. I randomly pick a hospital, with which we have established a relationship, and I go and give out chips to the patients' families who are there long term, mostly the NICU, PICU, and cancer and transplant patients since they are there for months at a time. It is a blessing, but if I'm honest, I will have to tell you it is emotionally draining. It breaks my heart to see so many suffering. There are children and adults alike suffering with cancer and other diseases or disorders that I can't even begin to wrap my mind around. I wish I could offer them more. I wish I could promise them healing, but I can't. I can only do my part.

I've had a hard time today. I've fussed with my eldest, gotten frustrated with my son, and thought a lot about the one who is missing...Emma. I have felt down, or like I'm drowning, or like the world is closing in around me. It didn't dawn on me until just a few minutes ago when I was putting our baby (although not such a baby any more) to bed, that today is September 1. I have said the date, written the date, and looked at the 1 on my watch several times today, but only now did I realize that today marks seven months since my precious little girl took her last breath. I'm so glad I was there. I was there when she breathed her first breath. I held her and cuddled her. I watched her tummy go up and down, her chest rise and fall. And I was there when she breathed her last. I brushed her cheek, sang to her, and told her it was okay. She was struggling so to let go, each breath so labored. Then she was gone, and I wished she wasn't. Of course I didn't want her to suffer anymore. Of course I know she is in a better place. Of course I know all of the rational things I should think and say, but the truth is, there is nothing rational about having to tell your little girl that it's okay to take her last breath, that Mommy and Daddy will be okay, and that she should let go. Nothing at all. There's nothing rational about having to wish she were here. Now. Well. Just a few weeks ago, Luke asked me if it was normal for children to die before their parents. I told him no, it wasn't normal at all and reminded him that Emma had a disease that made her body stop working. He remembered then and seemed to be comforted by that response. I hope he was. I was not. I think one really is the loneliest number.
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