Two Years Ago Today - In Flashbacks

Two years ago today, the fungal infection from the chemo had spread, and you, my perfect pink little Peyton, looked bruised and battered, tired and old.

Two years ago today, Daddy held you in his arms calling you his "Little Sugie Sugie", and we joked through the tears about who had lost more hair over the previous month, Daddy to stress, or you to chemo.

Two years ago today, I saw a group of doctors in the hallway. And then your social worker Mary appeared looking concerned, and I knew bad news was to come.

Two years ago today, more white coats than I could count shuffled into your room. They told us about a plum sized mass that they found in your brain, and I wondered how that could be possible when you showed no signs outwardly.

Two years ago today, you stayed awake with us for hours, staring deeply into our eyes. This was the greatest gift you ever gave us - these moments of bonding with us one last time.

Two years ago today, I received a prayer shawl with a prayer to Our Lady of Mt. Carmel in it from my boss. The note said it was "never known to fail," and I wrapped you in the shawl, praying and rocking and crying and begging in a way that was desperate and pleading and manic all at once.

Two years ago today, the look in your eyes told us not to worry. We believed in you, our little prize fighter. That you would pull through, and be that 1%.

Two years ago today, you stared past me at the wall, to an area where a red painting from your cousin Emily was hanging just over my shoulder.

Two years ago today, the neurosurgeon told us not to worry. He assured us the mass was not affecting anything, and that in two days, on that Friday, it would be easily removed.

Two years ago today, we felt hope and promise about your infection. The surgery the day before had been successful, or so they told us. It still makes me ill knowing what chemo did to you.

Two years ago today, you tried one last time to root. And I told nurse J that you were hungry, and she in turn broke my heart. She said you didn't know what you wanted. That you were only rooting because it came naturally, and that feeding you was impossible because of the blackness that had spread to the roof of your mouth. I am so sorry baby girl. I had no idea it was to be our last chance together in this life for that.

Two years ago today, I still held out hope for your future. I continued to pump and store milk, believing my antibodies delivered through your feeding tube would help you get well and be strong.

Two years ago today, you had come through your first white blood cell transplant with flying colors. We had been up with you all night the night before, hadn't changed in days, and were exhausted.

Two years ago today, the greatest regret of my entire life. At the nurse's urging and reassurance we left you at the hospital around 10PM, to rest up for the two long days of surgery you had scheduled ahead.

Two years ago today, your favorite Nurse Katie and the doctor on call spent all night with you having a "girl's party." I learned about this weeks later, in a handwritten Papyrus condolence card.

Two years ago today, your last night on earth before dying. I had no idea what I would have to do the next day, or how even years later, I would still be struggling to live with it.

Two years ago today, I didn't know yet what it was to hold my dead child. I didn't know how small you would look in your casket, or how permanent your absence from our lives would be.

Two years ago today, we listened to John Legend on the ride home. He asked "where did my baby go," the cruelness of this foreshadow still unknown to us.

Two years ago today, I wasn't that woman who cries out for you on a hilltop. I had never clutched the earth wanting to dig and get my child back, or cursed God for what he had done.

Two years ago today, I went home to rest still believing - that God and prayers and miracles could save you, holding onto my last bit of innocence.

Two years ago today, I still roamed this earth complete. I have since learned to walk on once again, but it is with the limp and struggle of an amputee, adjusting to a new awkward stride while never again feeling fully whole.

Someday it will be five years, and ten, and then fifty, and even then every moment of your life, every decision, every everything, will remain as clear in my mind, as burned into the core of my being, as it was when it happened two years ago. 

I miss you baby girl. I am so sorry I didn't see it coming. If I could go back I wouldn't have put you down for even a second.

If I had just seen what was coming, two years ago today.