And If You Were Here I Would Kiss You

And If You Were Here I Would Kiss You

And just when you think you have made progress, life comes along and smacks you on the back of the head with a big ol' board and gives you another reality check.

Yup, I lost a seven year old daughter in 1996 and this past week I never saw that board being swung in my direction. I don't know if reality check is the right combination of words, at this point I don't know what to call it.

My twins were born in 1988 and when my daughter died her autopsy results read: Undiagnosed (they don't know what it is) Degenerative (means it is seriously going down hill) Neuromuscular (something to do with the brain and muscle) Disorder (a nice way to say "there's a mess going on in here").

My son, her nineteen year old twin, is a sophomore at Marquette. I had our two youngest kids in to see their pediatrician for obligatory back-to-school-sinus- infections and stopped at the appointment desk to check on getting a meningitis shot for my nineteen year old when he got home for working at cub scout camp for the summer. I was told that I should talk to his pediatrician about getting him set up with his own general practitioner.

Well, that statement just felt exactly like I got smacked in the back of the head with a board!

I know now that I just stared at the receptionist. A moment before that moment I remember thinking "how does she stay healthy working in this cesspool of snot" and the next thing I know this kind woman was telling me that I would have to leave the safety and comfort of pediatrics!

Hell no, I won't go. Everyone knows me here, I am the woman who had twins, buried one of them, then adopted two kids, and now almost two more kids are adopted and let us not forget that a year ago I became a grandmother. It is safe in pediatrics. Everyone knows me, don't make me leave.

I had gotten comfortable thinking about my nineteen year old without his sister attached to him in some way, shape or form and suddenly life happens and that big ol' board comes along and smacks me in the back of the head and reminds me: Yup, I am a woman that lost a child.

I guess I keep coming back to being hit in the back of head with a board as the only analogy I can use to adequately describe the sudden pain followed by shock.

I am thinking it is a big heavy board and the fact that it hits the back of my head represents the fact that I never actually see it coming. So now I think to myself, Hmm, looks like that counseling paid off, right?

I know this isn't about my son leaving the comfort of his pediatrician, he's ready to move on. This is about me. Don't get me wrong, I've never actually forgot that my daughter died. I just don't get slammed by the shock of it very often and standing at the reception desk in pediatrics ... well, I never saw it coming.

I am alright. I have a minimum of thirteen years left in the pediatric waiting room. I can look at their fish tank and their outdated magazines for more than another decade. My oldest son is currently twenty-six, so I've already got over a quarter of a century of being parked in that waiting room done, the next decade plus should be a cinch!

I know I will still be safe in pediatrics and I know the right thing is for my nineteen year old to have his own "grown up" doctor, it just took me by surprise.

At that particular moment in time, I just wasn't read for the reminder.

In three months, I'll be saying my twenty year old son because there is a birthday coming and I will be ready for it. In my heart, it is her birthday, too.

Knowing she would not always be with us, I started giving them separate birthday celebrations. When they were really young, I would celebrate her birthday in the morning and his in the afternoon. As they got older I did his one weekend and hers the next.

I knew this was the healthy was to do it. I knew one day there would be a separation. God granted me the gift of time, the opportunity to let go of her slowly and I used that gift wisely.

I led a double life during her life. I appreciated her for everything she was and was not and at the same time I was getting ready for what to do when she wasn't anymore.

It was doing those years that I separated the birthday celebrations. It was during those years that I planned the memorial service. It was during those years I decided there would be no regrets. And there weren't any regrets. Unless you consider the fact that I will always regret not having peripheral vision wide enough to anticipate that big ol' board coming when I don't expect it!

So, here I am. Just another survivor's story and thank you God, for today is another day, a fresh day and I've got pink medicine to measure and life goes on again.

Last week was a bittersweet surprise and for that I thank you, Madeleine Rose, because with you I have learned to expect the unexpected.

I don't know what caused the bigger whirlwind, being me with you or being me without you.

Love you, miss you, and if you were here I would kiss you.