One month ago today my day started very early in the morning. On December 5th as I lay in the parent lounge of the ICU, trying to get an hour of sleep, the doctor came and woke me. I had asked him to wake me if there was any change ... and he did. Sadly, the change in your health was not a good one and he told me that your organs were failing. I knew in that moment that our lives were about to change forever. You fought so hard for the next twelve hours, until your tiny body had no fight left. Although I was so sad to not be able to look into your eyes and hold you as you fought, I was reassured in a way that you were not feeling any of this terrible pain. You were not afraid. Did you feel me sitting there, rubbing your feet and holding your hands? Did you feel my kisses?
After you died, I climbed into bed beside you and we lay together for a long, long time. I could not bear to walk away and leave you there. This was not the way things were supposed to be. Still in shock at how quickly you became ill, this felt like a total sucker punch. After fighting so much in your short life, this blow came out of no where and I was so angry as I realized that you never even had a chance against this terrible unexpected illness. Leaving you laying in that hospital was at the time the hardest thing that I had ever done. Sadly, the next week held experiences that were much more difficult than even that.
Now, as I write this to you one month later, I still feel the exact same way that I felt on December the fifth. I am still in shock, my heart is still swollen into my throat and I am still so so angry at this stupid sucker punch that knocked you down. It's not fair. It will never be fair. I am afraid that I will never be able to get over the unfairness and viciousness of all of this.
I have spent the month with all of your family and friends ... but really I just wanted to spend time with you. I miss our Sunday morning routine of listening to Doc and the Medics and dancing in front of the large window, not caring who might see our craziness. I miss waking up to your infectious grin, and having you take me by the hand to get your breakfast. I miss your crazy huge appetite. I miss picking out your outfits and showing you off to the world. I miss your giddy shrieks and your zest for life. I miss you wanting "up" and snuggling into m neck. I miss chasing you down as you ran with your hands flapping by your ears in sheer delight. I miss our Dr. Seuss time and tucking you into bed. I miss you frantically signing, wanting me to turn on your Dora musical nightlight. I miss the squeals of mischief as you thought you were "sneaking" out of bed. I miss cuddling you to sleep every night.
Sometimes as I lay in bed ... not even a bed in our own home ... I close my eyes and just imagine that we are all back at home. I imagine that you are sleeping just a few feet from me - safe and sound. Sometimes as I am driving I instinctively look in my rearview to see if you are ok in the back seat. Sometimes I put your CD on in the car and listen to your favorite music.
There are things that I dread facing. Loblaws. I dread Loblaws. I dread seeing the many cashiers that knew and loved you. I dread them asking where you are ... just as they would ask me any time that I went to the store without you. Only, now I can't bear to answer their questions. I dread the phone call from your ski school letting me know that your therapeutic ski program is ready to start. I dread hearing certain songs on the radio. I dread driving past the hospital where I first brought you on December the 4th ... where you were triaged as a mild case - seeming barely sick at all as you smiled at the nurse. I dread seeing an ambuance race past. I dread having to go to your school and gather your things. I dread going through your closet. I dread going home.
My sweet baby girl, I simply cannot believe that it has been a month since I held you and kissed you. I will never forget the last time you looked in my eyes as they whisked you out of the trauma room and into emergency surgery. I am so glad that they stopped all of the commotion for a moment to allow us that time together. One last time for you to hear me say I love you, and look at me as I kissed you.
I don't think that I will ever be ok again. I try so hard to remember how happy you were every single day ... but those memories of December 4th and 5th force their way in to my mind. I just can't get rid of them.
Aziza, you taught me so much. Moving forward I will try so hard to take those teachings and act on them each day for the rest of my life. I will try to make you proud, my sweet daughter. I will miss you forever.
Love, Mommy (Buh-Ma)
Aziza - December 2, 2012