Memories

Two years now, since our precious Ariana was taken from us. This year, with the 31st falling on a Friday, makes the entire week feel like a week of mourning, like we're sitting shiva years (years!) after the fact.

And there are so many memories. And such a dearth of memories. Being a human with all its dualism has never been so real to me as these past two years with a child in the grave. There are things that I can remember remembering. Things like the special way we'd snuggle when the boys were in bed. I know that we did that, and I remember that it felt amazing, but I can no longer remember what it felt like. Boy, does that hurt.

There are memories of her death - the discovery, the revival attempts, the hospital, the funeral home. I remember calling my dad to tell him to bring my mom to the emergency room. I remember coming home to my crying neighbor, mowing my lawn, and her saying, "I just don't know what to do but I have to do something for you." I remember seeing my father-in-law, my father, and my husband cry. I remember sitting in a room at the hospital while the police interviewed my husband and listening to Tanner sing "Jesus Loves the Little Children." I remember holding her for the last time. There are terrifying memories of the police investigation. I still remember feeling the driveway under my hands when the detective came to return my laptop, confiscated for the investigation. I remember him taking a step toward me and looking me in the eye, saying, "The autopsy was pretty clear. You suffocated her." The next thing I remember is the kitchen floor. I'm not sure if Ryan brought me inside or if I got inside on my own. I'm not sure when the detective left. (His assertion later turned out to be false). I remember getting the phone call telling us that we couldn't bury our daughter until we consented to further investigations, because the PD wouldn't allow the death certificate to be released until we did so (this later proved to also have been a false statement given to us). I remember kissing her goodbye in the casket. I wish I could remember what it felt like to hold her; I remember all too clearly what she felt like at the funeral home. I remember poring over the autopsy report, the police report, and the ambulance transport reports, trying to figure out what went wrong, and trying to figure out why I was dealing with CPS, the HPD, and accusations every time I met with the detective.

I still don't understand why we've had to endure this. I still don't know why I have to listen to my husband's voice break when he wishes she was here. I don't know why I have to explain to my son that we were lucky to have had her for the short time we did. I don't know why I am thinking about how to explain Ari to her younger sister. I don't know why they can't meet til Heaven.

I want to not be afraid when my baby is sleeping. I don't think I check on her any more often than I did the other two children, but I do know that there's a greater sense of urgency to check on her. I want to not panic in the middle of the night if I can't hear Ryan snoring. I don't want to panic when my phone rings (paradoxically, of course - I was the one MAKING the phone calls that horrible day).

Despite it all, despite the fact that the good memories fade and the bad memories persist in nightmares, I still have this overwhelming sense of goodness when I think of my oldest daughter. I think of her one-of-a-kind smile. I think of the way she'd hold her arms out to her daddy when he got home from work. I think of the way she'd tease her big brother - and how no one believed that a 9-month-old could do what she did until they saw her in action. I think of the way she'd try to eat the cat's fur. I'm crushed and I'm sad and I miss my baby every single day. I imagine her in pigtails and dresses and going to three-school and being jealous of her baby sister. But...when I think of her, even when I think of the sad and the scary memories, I feel joy. Isn't that weird? That seems weird to me. I think of the overwhelming joy I felt when I held her for the first time. I think of the overwhelming joy I felt when she latched on for the first time. When she first said, "Mamma." When she looked at me and smiled. When I made her laugh.

For now, maybe it's enough. Maybe that joy can tide me over until I get to Heaven and I can hold her and laugh with her and see her smile again.