|6 years, 11 hours, 30 minutes
||[Jun. 7th, 2014|11:30 pm]
At 6:45 this evening, surrounded by her family and loved ones, Rebecca died. Today was her sixth birthday.|
I feel like I will never stop crying. Please don't try to console me with promises that my heart will find peace. I know these things intellectually, but at the moment they feel like poison. Cradling her small, warm corpse against my chest, I breathed in the scent of her hair, felt the smooth, fine muscles of her arms, and remembered the tiny baby she had been when I first held her just short of six years ago, when the Meyers brought her home. Back then I held her in the crook of my arm while joyous telephone calls rocketed around the country, announcing her arrival. Today I held her while her grieving parents dealt with the personal calls that needed to be made to distant relatives to break the terrible news.
Back then I spent an entire day waiting in excited anticipation for the arrival of a new baby. Today I spent the entire day listening to her breathing and wondering if it was going to stop. Back then, watching the Meyers show big sister Carolyn her new baby was a day of joy. Today, I was the one who went to pick Carolyn up at the birthday party she was attending and had to tell her to come home because her sister was dead.
The parallels stab at me: memories of overwhelming joy; experiences of unendurable sadness.
I can't help but wonder how we ever go on from this.