I wish

A year ago today, I watched my daughter die. I watched my husband perform CPR on his little girl. I still remember the panic, calling 911, and feeling like I was suffocating. I still see the fear on the face of my older daughter when I told her that her sister’s heart had stopped. I still see Madison’s face, pupils dilated, mouth open slightly, and gray skin. I see the paramedics working, praying that they can get her back, and not seeing it happen as the minute’s tick by slowly. I remember officers asking me what happened and showing them everything, not caring that they were there and just wanting to be with my daughter. I remember them carrying her out of the house and touching her foot as she left her home for the last time. As Brian and Megan left to get to the hospital, I stayed behind because I was still sick and helped one of the paramedics clean up all the wrappings from the equipment they had just used to try and get her heart started again. I see the stain on the rug from Madison due to all the effort to help her. The furniture was all over the room from pushing it aside to give her CPR and to fit all of the people who were there. I just wandered to the couch and sat, waiting for a phone call. I talked to Brian once and a nurse once. The nurse told me they were able to get a faint blood pressure and pulse back. Brian told me I needed to come if I could. My friend brought me some anti-nausea meds, I put together a bag of Madison’s favorite things so she wouldn’t be bored when she came back and I drove to the hospital. I remember sitting in our quiet room and all I could do was force myself to breathe. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t move. All I could do was breathe. I kept thinking, “She’s young, she can pull through,” over and over again as Brian and Megan sat across from me in tears. I remember closing my eyes when one of the chaplains told us that she had coded eight times, knowing but not wanting to admit yet that she wouldn’t be coming home. I still feel and hear my husband as he sobbed in my arms when we were told her oxygen level was so low in her blood that she was likely brain-dead. I feel my hands on Megan’s face as I looked her in the eyes and told her that she needed to say goodbye to her sister or else she’d never forgive herself. I can still feel Madison’s face and hair as they told me her heart had stopped. I remember having to dissociate a little when they told me her case required an autopsy, knowing what that meant but not being able to completely deal with it mentally. I remember the feeling of being given a small box containing her ashes weeks later. The trauma and horror of what had happened to my baby continue to crash on me in waves since that day. The initial shock made me numb. The full realization took time and still knocks me down sometimes.

I know that’s hard to read, but it has vividly run through my mind every day for the last year and it will always be there. I can’t escape those images and it’s hard to help others understand that it takes a lot of effort to smile, be social, and seem okay. There are times when I’m overly social and I actually start to shake because I’m trying too hard to cover up my sadness. I’m still trying to figure out how to live with the trauma and grief. It’ll just take time. October 26th, 2021 was the last time I was able to touch and kiss Madison’s face, hold her hand and run my fingers through her hair. In the first few months after she died, I took myself to Urgent Care a couple of times concerned about my heart only to break down to the doctors having to explain that I might just be experiencing grief and why. I lost my composure many times as I went through all of her things but I was able to pack everything up to keep it all safe. I still have moments when I can’t believe she’s gone. I feel her and hear her everywhere, all the time. We used to carry her urn downstairs so she can be a part of our day and every night we’d take her upstairs to our room for bed. She now has a permanent spot because we have been afraid we might drop her. Her absence is still so obvious and I can’t imagine ever getting used to the silence. It’s a constant reminder of what we’ve all lost, how precious she was, and how much joy she brought to our lives. There are so many things that I wish had happened that day.

I wish we had decided to take her to the hospital earlier that night

I wish she could have seen both my face and her daddy’s face as she died. She must have been so scared and I’d always been with her when she was scared. She didn’t see me this time and I didn’t get to see her eyes looking at mine one last time.

I wish we had started CPR sooner

I wish we were given hopeful news in the ER

I wish she was still here

I wish I could watch her continue to grow and see and touch her joyful face and hold her little hands

I wish

I’m definitely still struggling but at least I no longer feel like I can’t continue without her. I look forward to seeing her again when my time here is over. For now, I’m trying hard to remember her with a smile and make all my thoughts about her the best memories I have. I’m taking one day at a time but I’m still so desperate to see her and hug her. I miss her so much. Hopefully, I can find my joy again one day.