Every day is a struggle. Everything around me is a reminder of the joy Madison brought to this family and the absolute horror of watching her die. The thoughts that run through my brain are a mixture of terror and fondness. I smile at a memory then fight back tears knowing I can’t see, feel or hear her. Every video I have of her is a re-run. Something I can watch to make me feel nostalgic but also sad knowing the show has been canceled. There won’t be any more new memories. Guilt is still a very prominent part of my thoughts just wishing I had done something differently. With my active and very vivid imagination, I can easily create alternative realities then destroy myself with accusatory thoughts demanding why I didn’t do THAT instead. The worst of it is the real. The actual images, feelings, and sounds from that day. The trauma will most likely guarantee that every second will always be a vivid memory for as long as I live. I’ve been on the verge of panic many times just remembering how I felt when I ran to the phone to call 911. You feel like you’re suffocating, your mind is extremely sharp and focused on making that call and doing everything as quickly as possible without messing up. The words just spill out of you in a desperate, insistent attempt to be as clear as you can be while talking a mile a minute. You repeat things you weren’t asked to repeat and you just try. You try to do everything right after you realize that you’ve done everything wrong. But, as I’ve said before, some mistakes have permanent consequences. We should’ve called sooner, we should’ve taken her to the hospital sooner. Everything should’ve been done sooner. The constant blame and terror that goes through my head is a punishment that I know God doesn’t want for me. It’s something no one wants for me, but I’m her mother and this feeling will always be with me no matter how many times someone tries to reassure me. There is no reassurance anyone can give me to make these feelings lessen.
There is only one thing that brings me back to a more calm or resigned state: The Bottom Line. I look at her pineapple where her precious ashes are held and force myself to realize and understand that she isn’t coming back. She’s gone. There’s nothing I or anyone can do about that. She’s prancing around Heaven surrounded by love doing her little dances and laughing her adorable little head off. She isn’t hurting, she isn’t sick, she doesn’t have to take medicine anymore or be afraid of being poked with needles. She’s surrounded by friends and family who have gone before her and anxiously waiting for her Leslie, Brian, and Megan to join her.
I will always struggle with the pain of that day, but The Bottom Line can help me look toward the ultimate goal of seeing her again. It’s the only comfort I can find in this long process of grieving.
Facebook Post 3/24/22 referring to the posted image:
I’ve been thinking about this picture a lot lately. This was the moment Madison first hopped off my lap before school and decided to walk all by herself to the playground before the bell rang. Before this day, she had always wanted to wait with me until the aid arrived to walk with her. She sat on my knee for a moment while I hugged
her, then she suddenly jumped off and told me she was going now. She confidently strutted down this long walkway and never looked back. It was an extremely proud but emotional moment for me. I still remember it so clearly because I stood there up against the fence and watched her the whole way. I remember getting choked up and telling the person watching the open gate that morning that I was ok, it was just the first time she walked by herself. It was so hard and I wanted nothing more than to walk with her, but I just held on tight to the bars of that fence until I saw her walk around the corner at the end on her way to the playground.
Thinking about the day we lost her, I can picture her walking the way she walked with her little hopping, hair-bouncing step, picking up the pace into her funny little feet-shuffling, arm-swinging jog, that genuine smile on her slightly upturned face looking a little off to the side. She would have rammed her head into Jesus’ tummy,
wrapping her arms around his waist as he hugged her, laughing with joy to see her, while I, her dad, and her sister were here hugging her and pleading with her to stay. It was our moment to hold on tightly to the bars of that fence as she confidently walked into the arms of her Savior.
As parents, we always talk about the difficulty of “letting go.” As believers, it should be the easiest thing to let God have our children, but in this literal sense, it was impossible. We wanted more time, more memories. The time we have on this earth is a blink compared to the eternity we can have together in God’s company and with each other. But it feels like a painful eternity when forced to endure it here on earth without the people we love. The more love you allow yourself to feel, the more pain you’ll experience when the source of that love is gone. But it’s worth it to
give yourself completely to it. That is truly experiencing God.