366 Days
That's how long it's been since I've seen your smile. Seen your eyes light up. Heard your little voice.
It's like a nightmare I just can't wake up from. I know there is absolutely no way any of this could be happening. It must be a nightmare.
But it's not. This is life. A completely unfair, beautiful thing called life.
This past weekend, someone said to Gonz "God gave you this time with her for a reason."
That's what we need to remember.
The past year has come and gone so quickly. Most days, I'm proud of Gonz and I for just being able to function. There's bad days, bad moments, and sometimes bad weeks. It seems like it'd be much easier to say, screw all this, and just lay in bed. Things that were once important no longer are. I don't mean that in a suicidal way, I mean it in once your child passes away your whole way of thinking changes way.
Grief is like a tug of war. The part of you that wants to do nothing vs. the part of you that wants to conquer the world.
A part of me wants to just remain sad 24/7 because that's how I feel. Why try to change it? My daughter is no longer here with us, so what else am I supposed to do? The other part of me says, God gave you her for a reason. Don't let that reason escape you. Do something. Wake up and come back alive. I believe that Arianna would want us to embrace this life. Find a purpose. Find a way to make her memory stay alive beyond us. Find a way to help at least one other person.
Arianna is and forever will be our inspiration and motivation to get up and live. She makes us want to better ourselves. I sincerely hope that one day we will see her again, and we will talk about everything we each did. In fact, I just told Gonz the other day, when he sees her again she'll probably say, "Look how much I can lift Dad! I've been watching you."
We tell ourselves, it's ok to have those bad days. It's ok to cry and be mad and want to punch things. But we can't let ourselves stay there too long. That doesn't mean we forget Arianna. It means we talk about her and her funny moments. We talk about all that she taught us. We talk about ways we can carry her name on. We talk about how to make her proud.
Seeing your child's lifeless body laying on a hospital bed is a memory forever engraved in your head. Holding on to those little fingers. Praying that some miracle happens and she just wakes up. I was taught way more than I ever wanted to know at Children's. I honestly don't know how the nurses do it day in and day out. But they are my heroes.
I can still see both of our rooms at Children's. I can feel like wind hitting my face as I'm walking across the bridge at night back from the Ronald McDonald House. I can hear Arianna's machines beeping. I can see the view from the window at 4 am because they would wake us up to leave the room to do Arianna's chest x-rays. I can hear the hustle and bustle of the hospital during the day, and the stillness that comes at night. I can see myself looking in the mirror wondering how in the world did we get hear. I can feel the rage and anger of being told we need to sign so we can do emergency brain surgery. I can see my baby girl with the cutest little pigtails surrounded by her stuffed animals.
I said this a year ago, and I'll say it many more times. Parents, read your child the extra story at bedtime. Go outside and play catch with them. Turn off the TV and just talk to them. When they hug you, hold on a second longer. And even when you want to pull your hair out because they are driving you absolutely insane, remember just how lucky you are to have them.
We miss you babycakes.
It's like a nightmare I just can't wake up from. I know there is absolutely no way any of this could be happening. It must be a nightmare.
But it's not. This is life. A completely unfair, beautiful thing called life.
This past weekend, someone said to Gonz "God gave you this time with her for a reason."
That's what we need to remember.
The past year has come and gone so quickly. Most days, I'm proud of Gonz and I for just being able to function. There's bad days, bad moments, and sometimes bad weeks. It seems like it'd be much easier to say, screw all this, and just lay in bed. Things that were once important no longer are. I don't mean that in a suicidal way, I mean it in once your child passes away your whole way of thinking changes way.
Grief is like a tug of war. The part of you that wants to do nothing vs. the part of you that wants to conquer the world.
A part of me wants to just remain sad 24/7 because that's how I feel. Why try to change it? My daughter is no longer here with us, so what else am I supposed to do? The other part of me says, God gave you her for a reason. Don't let that reason escape you. Do something. Wake up and come back alive. I believe that Arianna would want us to embrace this life. Find a purpose. Find a way to make her memory stay alive beyond us. Find a way to help at least one other person.
Arianna is and forever will be our inspiration and motivation to get up and live. She makes us want to better ourselves. I sincerely hope that one day we will see her again, and we will talk about everything we each did. In fact, I just told Gonz the other day, when he sees her again she'll probably say, "Look how much I can lift Dad! I've been watching you."
We tell ourselves, it's ok to have those bad days. It's ok to cry and be mad and want to punch things. But we can't let ourselves stay there too long. That doesn't mean we forget Arianna. It means we talk about her and her funny moments. We talk about all that she taught us. We talk about ways we can carry her name on. We talk about how to make her proud.
Seeing your child's lifeless body laying on a hospital bed is a memory forever engraved in your head. Holding on to those little fingers. Praying that some miracle happens and she just wakes up. I was taught way more than I ever wanted to know at Children's. I honestly don't know how the nurses do it day in and day out. But they are my heroes.
I can still see both of our rooms at Children's. I can feel like wind hitting my face as I'm walking across the bridge at night back from the Ronald McDonald House. I can hear Arianna's machines beeping. I can see the view from the window at 4 am because they would wake us up to leave the room to do Arianna's chest x-rays. I can hear the hustle and bustle of the hospital during the day, and the stillness that comes at night. I can see myself looking in the mirror wondering how in the world did we get hear. I can feel the rage and anger of being told we need to sign so we can do emergency brain surgery. I can see my baby girl with the cutest little pigtails surrounded by her stuffed animals.
I said this a year ago, and I'll say it many more times. Parents, read your child the extra story at bedtime. Go outside and play catch with them. Turn off the TV and just talk to them. When they hug you, hold on a second longer. And even when you want to pull your hair out because they are driving you absolutely insane, remember just how lucky you are to have them.
We miss you babycakes.
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