At Peace

I can't get into great detail of Madeleine's final day. To say that we agonized over her condition is understated, but to know that Jeff had a premonition, and I had a premonition, independently of one another and we dared not speak of it lest it come true, is a testament of how she was that day. She was actively treated by her nurse for more than two hours, and my mom or I never left her side all day long. However, by 3 o'clock I knew, without a doubt, and I busied myself to pretend I didn't know, an involuntary decision I hope I don't live to regret. But she knew I was there. 

February 2012

She wasn't waiting for me, I had already told her many times during the last weeks of her struggle that Mommy is ok and she doesn't have to worry about me. On Tuesday she was waiting to hear her Daddy's voice, and ultimately, she was waiting for Annalise to let her go.

June 2012

I am in complete awe of the bond between my girls at their young age. The last 17 days at home on hospice were as normal as we possibly could make them, and Annalise is so smart and astute and articulate, but this was one thing she couldn't communicate. Of course she couldn't, we wouldn't expect she could at 3 1/2 years old. Throughout each day she would occasionally go to Madeleine in her chair, press her cheek to Madeleine's cheek, whisper "I love you Madeleine" to her and go about her day. The sad truth is that it was completely normal to Annalise for Madeleine to be sick; a heartache I know Jeff and I will feel for all of our days. There is something inherently wrong with a child being accustomed to hospitals and sickness; it just not ought to be. The last day, on Tuesday, Annalise checked on her several times after waking up to Madeleine having head-shaking seizures. I'm not sure I will ever know what she thought or how she interpreted what she saw.

But she knew too something was different. Finally, very late into the evening, after Madeleine's fever peaked at 103.3 and we knew it was coming, and Jeff's parents were in our home later than they had ever been, it was time for Annalise to say good night. She dressed for bed and did her nighttime rituals. She gave everyone hugs and kisses good night. She went to Madeleine, put her arms around her limp shoulders, kissed her cool cheek, gently rubbed their tiny noses together, and told her, "good night Madeleine. I love you. Merry Christmas Madeleine." 

November 2012

She went to bed and I'm so thankful she slept through the weeping and cries of 5 adults as Madeleine took her last breath and we felt her last heart beat. Jeff held her and I both close and we looked into her eyes and told her it was ok to go, it was time now, don't be scared baby, Mommy and Daddy love you. A moment of stillness felt like an hour. We thanked her for going. We thanked God for her peacefulness in our arms. Jeff loved her and held her tightly talking to her. I was frozen sitting in front of him. It was as if I couldn't believe what I had just witnessed. Eventually I felt an uncontrollable pull of my arms towards her. I took her in my arms and walked to my bedroom, where I sat in the dark and told her how I loved her so, and I missed her already. I don't know why I kept telling her, you belong to me, you will always belong to me, you're my baby- but I did. I must have said that 5 times. And I wailed. I held her to my chest and cried those mother's tears of sorrow. And then it stopped. My heart did not ache. My heart was at peace because my daughter was finally at peace.