Day 81

Three years ago today, she took flight…I honor her by remembering the moments.

I didn’t realize the last time she opened her eyes would be her last. I wish desperately I could bottle her scent. I didn’t catch her last cry or yawn or sigh on video. I didn’t get a warning to tell me I was losing her. It happened before our very eyes, we had no control.

She had been doing well. Well enough to be scheduled to move rooms and go home within a few days. But on Friday, things changed. She started struggling early in the morning and continued throughout the day. She required more and more breathing support, at one point she had to be placed back on the high flow nasal cannula. It didn’t make sense, nothing explained this change. Her chest X-ray appeared the same, a heart echo revealed no changes. Blood work didn’t indicate infection or any abnormal results.

As the day turned to evening, she was stable and resting. We took the opportunity to go eat dinner. Chris wanted to go back to the hospital to tuck her in while I took Cooper home to rest. Not uncommon, and evenings like this had happened many times before.

But this night was different. On this night, my phone rang around 10:45pm, about 45 minutes after I fell asleep. Chris was calm but to the point, “Your dad and I are here. Your mom is coming to get you and Jason will stay with Cooper.”

My heart rate skyrocketed, I could hear it…I felt my pulse drumming throughout my body. It almost hurt. I didn’t follow the rules…instead of waiting patiently for my mother and brother to come, I got in the car, asked a neighbor to come be with Cooper and raced to OU Children’s.

A drive I could do in my sleep by now. A drive that became my daily commute. This drive felt different. I couldn’t get there fast enough.

I ran in. Literally, I ran through the empty, cold halls of the hospital, impatiently kept pressing the “Up” button. Never has an elevator ride seemed so long. Getting to the 7th floor seemed impossible. But in reality it didn’t take long at all.

When the front desk saw me coming, they didn’t stop me to check in, they simply opened the doors.

Those double doors I walked in and out of hundreds of times. This time, on the other side was an outpouring of nurses and doctors and equipment from her room.

I saw my baby. Only wearing a diaper but once again, covered in IV’s, lines, leads, probes, and so much more. Most importantly, she was intubated. Although she had a machine doing the work, breathing for her, it wasn’t enough. She started crashing. When her heart rate reached the 40’s as opposed to her normal 120’s, they quickly administered epinephrine. She responded well. Her heart rate went up, her saturations climbed higher and higher.

At this point, we were confused and frustrated. We hadn’t seen a cardiologist yet but the neonatologist was communicating with him the entire time. The thought was to put Audrey on ECMO (Extracorporeal Membrane Oxygenation), a procedure that uses a machine to take over the work of the lungs and the heart. This would allow her body to rest while giving the doctors a chance to learn what the culprit was. But, we were told the risks of ECMO were likely as high as opening her up and doing surgery in her state. There didn’t seem to be a choice.

Everything was set up. The baby rooming with Audrey was moved out. ECMO machinery brought in. Blood, so much blood, was hooked up and ready to go. Just about the time they were going to start, the cardiovascular surgeon, Dr. Burkhart, and the Chief of Pediatric Cardiology, Dr. Overholt, got to her room. They wanted ECMO to hold until they could have a chance to be brought up to speed and analyze her situation more thoroughly.

Dr. Burkhart operated on Audrey back in June during her emergency heart surgery and has been rounding on her daily since then. Dr. Overholt, however, was new to her case. A fresh pair of eyes.

He was handpicked to be there at just the right moment. After careful study of her heart/lung catheter procedure from two weeks ago, he discovered a game changer. He revealed to us that the culprit was not Audrey’s heart, nor was it her small pulmonary veins. It wasn’t her Dandy Walker syndrome. It was microvascular lung disease. Not in just one lung, but in both. Since her heart surgery, they assumed that her right lung likely wouldn’t last. With small, obstructed pulmonary veins on that side, it would have been expected for her to lose the lung completely at some point, living with only her left. Severe microvascular lung disease in both lungs was a new finding that Dr. Overholt discovered. His fresh eyes were able to see something different. Something no one was looking for, because as we were told, it is a miracle that she lived as long as she did. This disease in the lungs is progressive but started when she was in utero, they said.

Heart surgery to fix her Tetralogy of Fallot and to enlarge her pulmonary veins wouldn’t help her lungs. No treatment would save her life.

Plans for ECMO were put on hold. As we met with the doctors, gained a clearer picture of what was happening. ECMO would have given her body a chance to rest, but it would have prolonged the inevitable. Choosing not to do ECMO would allow us to have time with her throughout the rest of the night and next morning while family traveled in to say goodbye.

She remained sedated throughout the night. Her heart rate was consistent and, while too low, her oxygen saturations were stable. The team at OU made us as comfortable as possible, bringing in recliner chairs, water, blankets, and so much more. But sleep didn’t happen. A few minutes of rest here and there were appreciated, but sleep wasn’t important.

The sun started to rise. Another day began. Deep down I knew this was the last morning she would be with us. I knew this day was her last.

Throughout the morning, we cried over her, laughed with each other, played special music, used clay molds and made an ornament of her hand and foot prints, got her “going home” outfit all ready. Late in the morning, the team moved Audrey up to the 10th floor to a beautiful suite called the Comfort Care Room. It was very big with nice furniture. We were asked to go up before her, the ride up with her could be difficult and it was. They had to stop the ventilator during this time and needed to “bag” her manually. She quickly began to desaturate and they knew they needed to quickly get her hooked back up to the vent. Once they did, she stabled out a bit but she was battling. By this time the family had arrived. And really, it was time. She stayed with us as long as she could.

We hadn’t ever had the chance to bathe her. It is something I wanted desperately to do. And they let us. Chris and I got to clean her perfect skin with warm soapy water. To touch her soft head and see her precious back that we never really did. We cleaned under her arms and between her tiny toes, behind her ears and over her many scars. It was such a precious memory. Such an act of love. Bathing our daughter before going “home”. To be clean, to be even more pure than she already was.

We then dressed her. First, a strawberry diaper. These were a signature during her life. Never has a diaper been put on more perfectly. The velcro straps lined up, the flaps around her bottom and legs ruffled sweetly. Then, a beautiful, classic pink outfit, short sleeves and legs, with little flowers across her chest. Her chest…the very area that took her life…adorned with tiny flowers. And, of course, a headband.

She looked perfect. Beautiful. Peaceful. Without struggle. Free of grimace.

At this time, we all held her. While she was still with us. We kissed her. Wept. Hugged.

Our dear friend and Chaplain, Trisha, came to be with us. To dedicate this baby and to pray over her. She was there the day Audrey was born, the day she went into emergency surgery, many days in between, and then on her final day.

Once her family said goodbye, they gave Chris and I privacy while the extubation took place and we helped her go.

The moment the tube was removed, she didn’t breathe once. They gave her to us. A perfect angel.

We cradled her in our arms. Took her in. All of her. We loved her. We sent her to Heaven. We trusted her to the Lord. We helped her fly.

Her heart slowed. Dr. Bhatti, the incredible neonatalogist with us throughout it all, checked her heart rate. It had slowed to about 20 beats per minute.

We told our baby it was okay to go. Told her how much she is and always will be loved. That she changed our lives for the better…for good.

And then she gasped. Though it was a tiny noise, it was loud. It was final.

We all knew in that moment..we knew she was gone.

Dr. Bhatti checked her heart and confirmed it…

At 2:27pm on Saturday, August 16th, Audrey Claire Leslie flew home.

81 days + 46 minutes after she was born, she was gone.

For the next couple of hours, we simply snuggled. Family trickled back in. We took pictures with her.

I laid on the couch with her pressed against my chest and wept, smiled, and felt so much love. I couldn’t move. Not until Cooper wanted to come in.

Cooper said goodbye in the best way he could understand how…he drew a picture and showed her. He was confused and a little detached but we didn’t force anything. He saw her in her final state. We were there with her as a family.

She was clear. Her body failed her and she let us know it was time. She had not one struggle or indication of pain. She simply slept.

When it was time to let her body go, the words poured out of me without even thinking. I just said it without control…

“Now I lay me down to sleep…I pray the Lord my soul to keep…”

And He does.

I want it all back. I want her back. Heaven got the better end of the deal. I want to cradle her close to my body. I want to feel her warmth. All the warmth left her sweet body. She turned cold.

The day was gloomy and dreary, then, almost the moment she passed, the sun came out. Tears from Heaven came down for her, then the rejoice of her through those pearly gates shined with golden splendor down on us. The ones left behind.

A message that she was home. A message that she is whole, healthy and loved. Beautiful in the most perfect place.

I miss everything about her. Photos and videos can’t capture how it feels to hold her.

And I never get to do it again. It’s not right. I hurt all over. My fingertips ache, my heart seems to be missing beats, the pit in my stomach grows and the lump in my throat won’t go away.

Her room sits empty, yet so full. It defines so much about her and her life. We created it especially FOR her, once we knew her. Now, her going home outfit lays sweetly in the crib, next to her tiny wrist splints, photos and her hand and foot prints.

We now get to plan a celebration of her life. Her close family was there to send her home, and now her entire family of friends and prayer warriors can help celebrate all that she was, is and will always be.

I have so many ideas, thoughts of how to celebrate her. I want this week to go slowly, because I know after the celebration it will feel…well, I don’t know yet, but I imagine it will have an overwhelming sense of finality.

The rest of the world will move on. The days and nights will come and go.

But how do I? How do we? Faith, trust, love and sweet peace, I suppose. Just as she was at peace when she went, we too must seek this each and every day.

She will always be our girl. Our daughter. Our son’s sister. Our parents’ grand-daughter, a cousin, a niece, a great-granddaughter, a friend, a patient who was loved and adored.

We all lost her yesterday.

But she isn’t lost, she is found. In all of us. You may not have met her but she knew your love and we all help define her.

Let us all love a little better, be a little stronger, live a little braver. Let her legacy live forever in each of us. Let’s all be better because of her…for her.

When we have her celebration of life scheduled, know that we will share the details.

We don’t know what we need now or in the future, but thank you for all you have done and will do.

Our appreciation runs deep and for a lifetime.

Her story continues, as will writing to her and about her. Keep reading. Never forget.

Stay tuned for a special announcement regarding Wings for Audrey next week. I have a meeting with OU Children’s Hospital on Monday and hope to be able to tell you some important updates.

My Mess; My Message

There is a small but important part of my story that I have chosen to share beyond my inner circle. It started as a letter to my daughter living in my womb. It became a way to be a vessel for a little girl who could teach us all a thing or two. When her body left this earth, her story was unfinished. And so I wrote and shared and wrote even more.

I credit my survival of many dark hours to the following:

Faith//I never understood what it truly meant to have faith until life became uncomfortable. 30 years of undeserving comfort built my foundation, but never before had I felt I needed God. It was more like a partnership. I would focus on making the “right” decisions and He would bless them…Oh, if only I could go back and have a little chat with my younger self.

People//I learned a lot about people. I’ve learned it’s easier for most people to celebrate than grieve. Somehow, we were surrounded by an astounding number of family and friends who are the definition of showing up. They showed up over and over and over again. They know the story of Audrey by heart because they were there. And in countless ways, even after she was gone, they have continued to selflessly show up.

Writing//It became many things. An outlet. My therapy. A connection. An escape. It provided a space for me to gather all the incessant thoughts and release them from my fatigued mind. I was surprised by how effective it was. The thoughts and feelings were liberated and set free into the abyss of the World Wide Web so I could keep moving.

Something started to change recently. It wasn’t as distinct as a paradigm shift; it was subtle and bothersome.

I had so much to say. I became overwhelmed and ultimately stuck. It wasn’t Writer’s Block because, of course, I’m not a writer. The harder I tried the more my wheels just kept sinking and spinning.

Frustrated, exhausted and full of tension, I felt like a mess.

I had a fleeting thought that maybe it was time to meet with a professional. But even thinking it to myself made me cringe.

A shameful voice inside me uttered, “You don’t need help. You need to get it together. What’s it going to take for you to be content? No one wants to listen to you whine.”

I see you, Satan.

The truth is, I didn’t even know where to start. I didn’t know anyone who had done anything beyond premarital counseling. I felt a sense of shame saying to a friend, “So, I’m thinking about seeing someone for counseling, know anyone good?” 

It’s a little more awkward than asking their recommendation for a hair stylist or pediatrician, is it just me?

Then one day, by no accident, a door opened for me to discuss all of this with someone I trust. What I learned is that this person took the same step and now sees counseling as an important part of life maintenance. I slowly opened up to a few other people and learned that I was in good company. I began to gain confidence in the idea.

It took me some time to finally make the call. But I did.

The day of the appointment left me feeling nervous and anxious. The idea of telling this person my life story sounded exhausting. But I valued that she would be an unbiased, new pair of ears. I feared the label. I didn’t want to be defined as this or that. I wondered if going would make me feel crazy.

I parked my car and took a deep breath. “Just be open”, I thought, “be willing.”

What I learned in the first 55-minute appointment was that I wish I had done this earlier.

But I wasn’t ready earlier. I didn’t think I needed it earlier. I was ready when I was ready.

There seems to be this invisible fence that surrounds “counseling”. I walked along the perimeter, thinking that crossing over was a bad thing. I believed that needing or even wanting to be counseled by someone wiser than me meant that I had failed.

I can’t figure out the hush. I’m often reminded that humans unite in their pain. There is a difference between sharing and complaining. I’m interested in suffering well together. Not everyone is, I appreciate that.

We get haircuts, we bathe, we exercise, we read, we get annual check-ups, we go to the dentist…we maintain our lives. I didn’t understand this before, but what do we do to maintain our minds?

For me, I’m crossing that invisible fence. I’m fighting against the stigma. My brother reminded me just today, “Let your mess become your message.” Writing is a part of me now. I can’t turn it off. But it is one-sided. And, as forthright as I am, I’ll always remain somewhat guarded and protective. I don’t have to do that with my new friend.

I always loved my guidance counselors growing up, I’m eager to have one now, as an adult.

Brushstroke Melody

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The day before felt like we were playing a dark game of hopscotch on a minefield. That was Friday. It was the day we spent hours absorbing the laundry list of imperfections about our daughter growing inside me. I was a sponge over-filled with horrific realities and sad truths just begging to be washed clean of it all.

Saturday was the hazy aftermath.

We felt all the emotions and none at all. We were both overwhelmed and completely numb.

It was grey both literally and figuratively. The clouds looked lower than I had ever remembered. It seemed appropriate. Heaven was hanging it’s head right along with us.

I spent the majority of that particular day curled up on one side of the couch. Chris asked what I wanted. He knew the answer but was looking for what I needed in that moment.

“An escape,” I said plainly. And so we watched movie after movie….after movie.

Eventually we emerged from our theatrical cocoon and even the dark, grey skies burned our red and swollen eyes. We traveled to pick up Cooper from his grandparents’ house.

It was during that silent, hour-long drive that I received a text from my Carrie. It didn’t say anything; it was a link to a song.

It was “Oceans” by Hillsong United. Popular now, but had only just been released at the time. That was my first listen.

Chris and I looked at each other. We didn’t have to speak.

If you haven’t heard the song, I encourage you to. If you have, I don’t have to say much more for you to understand.

From that point forward, it was Audrey’s song. And it was everywhere we turned.

One acutely difficult day when I was pregnant and waiting with Audrey, I turned to my dad for encouragement.

I was struggling. I was scared of the unknown. No, I wasn’t scared, I was terrified. He was quiet for a period of time. And then he simply said, “Have you not been listening to the song.”

That was a pivotal moment for me. Not just in the journey with Audrey, but in my life…my faith.

You see, I had spent 30 years hearing the words but not listening.

I heard someone recently talk about “training for your trial”. What an incredible idea. It’s less about waiting for the other shoe to drop and more about your faith becoming real and deep and intimate. All of this so when you must go trough life’s tribulations, you are deeply rooted and strongly grounded. You are ready.

So, I listened again. And again and again and again.

Oh…I thought.

It was a fight or flight situation for me personally. I could have flown the coop and given up on God. Why? Because it kind of felt like He let me down. Scratch that, not kind of, it did feel like He let me down.

I dug my heels in and fought for my faith.

Perhaps I had to fight a little harder because I hadn’t trained for my trial well in my trio of decades. Either way, I knew God was in this and even when I was angry, He could take it. Either way, I knew that I wanted Him to carry me through it when I was too weak to take the steps alone.

Fast-forward to the day family and friends gathered to celebrate the life Audrey lived and to say a final earthly goodbye. That same, precious Carrie honored us by singing Oceans to our baby girl. Sarah played violin. Chris drummed beautifully along.

I can hardly type these words without pausing for a tear-break as I think back on the moment. Full-circle. The words of that gorgeous song flooded our hearts on the first day of the journey and again on the last.

And now, three years later, a gift found it’s way to me for my 33rd birthday.

It’s Oceans.

Literally.

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An artist named Lindsay Sherbondy, whom I am inspired by daily, painted the song. The waves crashing. The hope. The darkness. The light. It’s all there in the brushstrokes.

My parents gifted me with Audrey’s song as art. I’ve never loved a painting more sweetly. I’ve never felt a piece of art more deeply.

It’s my fight song. What is yours?

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To the Last Drop

I’ll never forget the day I looked in our freezer and decided it was time.

It was quite literally overflowing with breast milk. Milk my body had produced for the baby no longer living.

There was this process of “undoing” around our home after Audrey passed. It started with diapers. I gave these away to people in my life with baby girls who could use them right away. Slowly, it became too much to walk by a closed door to a fully furnished nursery. The crib came down and still to this day, provides a sound place for our beautiful niece to sleep.

The offers from family and friends to help do these unfathomable tasks after she passed were endless and sincere. But I knew there would be a healing that would come with physically and emotionally taking care of putting her things to rest. Little by little, as my heart and mind could allow, I came to terms with our reality and intentionally gave new life to the things she would not need.

The very last was the milk…hundreds of ounces of it. It took up residence in our freezer. In my mind, it not longer held purpose, yet it was packed full of meaning.

Meaning…and nutrients.

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Does it sound strange for me to say that throwing it away seemed disrespectful? When she was alive, it was just as important to Audrey, or really more so, as diapers, clothing and even a crib. And I made it for her. I worked hard to produce this for her. To simply dispose of the frozen milk wasn’t right.

I was desperate for Audrey’s life to have purpose. And so her milk would too.

I contacted several professionals to discuss my options and thankfully, our neighbor and friend was an OB/GYN who guided me in the steps to donate the milk to another baby in need.

Within minutes, or maybe it was seconds, of posting the offer of milk, nine different women requested it. I considered, “How in the world do I choose?”

I remember thinking about God. I wondered if He ever thought, “How do I choose?” What were the criteria for babies who got Heaven early? As per usual, my mind spun into a series of wondering and overthinking. I may never get an answer to that question and that’s just okay. I have found peace in the simplicity of trust.

My sister-in-love and I still giggle about the day the recipients came to pick up the milk. I won’t go into detail but let’s just say it wasn’t quite the picturesque moment I had imagined. A situation I thought would be crowded with tears was just that…only they were the laughing kind.

It was the first time I really laughed after Audrey was gone. I needed that. I’ll never regret choosing to donate what was intended for my daughter. Or was it?

I had milk and no baby. She had a baby and no milk. Simple.

Once the milk was gone, I opened the freezer door. It seemed darker somehow. The emptiness mirrored my heart in that particular moment.

But then I realized, I got my freezer back. Ounce by ounce, it had eventually become overtaken by milk. There was no more room for anything else and only once it was all gone did I recognize this.

This was symbolic to me. When Audrey died, there were hours and days that I felt like a hollow shell. She overwhelmed my emotions, my thoughts, my everything really. When she and her things were gone, I realized just how much space she held. A lot. I’m okay with that. I don’t regret that.

And when it came time to fill the void she left, I remembered Daniel 3:18, “…but if not, He is still good.”

He.  

Love + Hugs, R

 

Which Hunt

Have you ever caught yourself measuring time based on a big event in your life? Perhaps it was an accident, or a “Got Ya” date, a major promotion at work or a death.

We’re approaching three years since Audrey was born. When I speak of her, it feels strange to say she was born almost three years ago. I guess in part because that seems so long ago, and yet, at the same time, shocking that it has passed too quickly.

My personal journey as her mother is three years old also. I’m basically a toddler. I can walk well, talk in complete sentences and ask for help when I need it.

I also have those toddler-like days when I cry for no reason, I can’t put into words what exactly I’m feeling and I’m overtired.

My journey is still young and moldable. Most weeks I see, read or hear something that I put into the Audrey part of my brain. You might think it slowly turns off or that having a six-year-old and a nine-month-old would crowd that…it doesn’t.

Cooper randomly brings her up or mentions her name. I won’t avoid that. And Emma? The simple being of her causes me to overthink and feel a little too much most days. Her existence is fascinating to me and further deepens my faith. Sometimes it confuses me but that is when I choose to trust that she is meant to be here and Audrey is meant to be there.

Being chosen as Audrey’s mother sent me on a “Which Hunt”. I imagine, no I hope, I’ll be on it for the better part of the rest of my life.

Whatever the situation is, big or small, important or mundane, I know that only I have the power over my emotions. No one or no thing can MAKE me feel a certain way.

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So I ask myself, “Which way will I handle this.”

I’m hunting for my which.

Whiching well doesn’t always come easily to me, I’m a feeler. I feel all over the place. I tend to feel then think, therefore I should a lot too.

I fail often. I get it wrong. I lose perspective and lose sight.

But sometimes I win. I get it right. I dig both heels into the foundation that has been laid through the life and death of my second born and I see the light.

My Which Hunt is ever evolving. Let’s just say this particular season of life as a family with two young children provides endless opportunities to choose wisely. The moments when I react instead of respond are all too common. At times, I fall prey to taking the path of least resistance. It’s easier at first but more often than not, I regret it. In my relationship with adults, I typically have more time to gather my thoughts. As a parent, that time is cut in half (or less). I’m helping shape and mold future adults here, I need more time to choose the best which!

That’s when I pray, a lot, for wisdom and discernment. That works in all aspects of my life, not just as a parent.

Our daughter lived and then she died. Black and white, but not simple. Her life and death were sprinkled with clear which’s and difficult which’s. Some of the decisions we were faced with are almost unbearable to think about now, but we did it, we made it through.

I’m still growing and maturing on this journey. One day, I’ll wake up and it will be thirty years since Audrey. What will life look like by then? Only God knows. But I pray I will still say our Audrey reminds me to which wisely.

Love + Hugs, R

What About The Dad?

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To The Daddy,

Our child is 50% you and 100% us.

Instead of carrying her in your womb, you carry the weight of our world on your shoulders.

You may not have felt her kick from the inside out, but you aren’t exempt from the pain of her loss.

I see you.

I see you forced into the role of “The Rock”. You are expected to be the solid counterpart to my emotional tendencies.

I see you wiping away my tears and wonder if you ever need a good cry.chrisaudrey

I see you leave for work each day. Throughout it all, you have continued to build a life for our family without question or complaint.

When was the last time I checked your pulse? Maybe she has also been on your mind.

You lost her too, after all. She wrapped her tiny hand around your ring finger. She calmed when you held her near your heart.

She knew the love of her daddy…what a beautiful thing it is, the bond between a father and his child.

When we chose each other, little did we know this would be part of our story. And yet she is, forevermore.

In Japan, broken objects are often repaired with gold. The flaw is seen as a unique piece of the object’s history, which adds to its beauty. Isn’t that remarkable? I imagine our marriage as a well-made vase. The great loss of our child could have slowly caused a crack and eventually broken us apart. Instead, she’s our gold. She makes us stronger.

Never once have you ever thought, “What about me”? That’s not who you are. But I have for you. Because it isn’t about me. It isn’t about me and our child. It’s about us. All of us.

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They feel it too. They need to be remembered and thought of. They have off days and quiet days and just-plain-angry days.

Give them the opportunity to talk about it, don’t assume they won’t or don’t want to. Give them the opportunity to get away from it. Time with friends or enjoying their favorite hobby can help relieve stress.

Don’t take it out on the Daddy. It’s easy to do. They are close and nearby. The truth is, sometimes those we adore the most are in the line of fire.

When family and friends offer to help, keep him in mind. What are some ways people can help him too? Ask someone to mow the lawn. Ask his friends to take him for a guy’s night. If a meal train is going, suggest some of his favorite meals.

It’s easy for him to get lost in the shuffle of errands, picking-and-putting, taking care of this and that, bill paying, and more. He keeps moving. Help him pause every once in a while.

Acknowledge the Dad.

Love the Dad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two Years Gone

If only I could borrow miss Audrey for one more day, just to snuggle her close. I promise I’d give her right back…well, maybe.
 
It was on this day, two short but full years ago, that our daughter Audrey spent her last day here on earth with us. What I wouldn’t give for one more day with her. But like Diamond Rio so poignantly says, one more day would only keep me wishing for more. After all, we got 81.
 
Last week, Cooper asked me if Emma is Audrey.
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I’ve thought about that precious question a lot. It’s confusing for him. Who am I kidding, it’s confusing for me. No, Emma is not Audrey. Yes, she is a baby sister. Yes, she sure looks a lot like Audrey. To him, perhaps a subtle nuance at this point. But, they are two different people. Two different stories. Two different purposes. Some day he’ll understand that better.
 
I had a tender day recently. My whole body hurt for Audrey. I just missed her. I was sad about her and that hole in my heart pulsed painfully. Oddly, it seemed comforting. I was almost relieved that having Emma didn’t cover up that pain. It confirmed there is no replacement for Audrey.
 
I will be forever grateful that I chose to document our daughter’s life through writing. It became my therapy, a cathartic outlet for me. I may over share at times but never will I regret including the tiniest of details about our daughter we lost too soon. I reread this link today that I wrote about her last day.
 
 
It is a bit hard to read but only because it makes me want to jump back in time for the day. I wouldn’t change a thing, I would simply redo it…in slow motion.
 
Today my throat might have a lump that may not go away, but that’s okay. I’m incredibly proud of her and her story. Here and there, it continues to impact people and as long as I can, I will sing her song.
 
Audrey, today is for you, as you dance in Heaven with your body perfected. We’ll miss you until the day we get to say hello again.
 
Hold your littles and not-so-littles a bit tighter today, friends!