I look at these pictures, at your bed, at your clothes, at your toys, and I just want to hold you again, and never put you down. I want to hear you snore after I’ve rocked you to sleep. I want to feel your weight in my arms, and marvel at how you’ve grown. I want to set your mind at ease, tell you it’s okay, tell you how beautiful and wonderful and tough and important you are. I want to see that smile again, the one that cuts straight through me, the one we get when we tickle the side of your mouth.

I fell for you, Ella, and you fell for me, and then you fell without me, when you couldn’t breathe and your arms were limp and you tried to fight again, like so many fights you’ve won. I wasn’t with you as you died, to tell you how proud I was of you, to tell you that it would be okay and that you were stronger than other babies and that I would stay with you for as long as you needed me to. I wasn’t there to hum to you, to sing to you, to play with the side of your mouth until you smiled. If I could have you back, I’d do all those things and more. I’d tell you it will be okay, that you’re tough, that I’m proud, that I love you.

You came into this world kicking and screaming, and instantly the world was more. A part of me doesn’t want to live in a world without you, a lesser world. That part of me is lost in the middle of the night when it’s time to feed you. That part of me is lost without your weight on my shoulder, or in my arms. That part of me is lost in the middle of the night when there’s nothing to be heard except my own breathing. That part of me is lost, and always will be.

Where are you? I hope, and maybe pray, that, if you’re anywhere, you’re happy and laughing and pooping. I know that, if you’re anywhere, with anyone, that you’re breaking their hearts, too. If you’re anywhere, and you can, would you stop by and say, “Hi,” or just give me that look in one of your last pictures, the look like you’re seven already, the look where I can see what my baby girl would’ve grown up to look like? The look where you’re not a baby and you don’t need heart surgery and maybe you have a crush on a boy. The one that makes me want to snatch you up last Friday morning and hold you all day because maybe if I showed you just how much I loved you, despite how I acted when I was frustrated, that you’d have stayed. That one, that picture, is all of them.

It’s 3:27 in the morning, the day you’ll be buried. I’m going to be a wreck, Elizabeth. I’m trying to stall, because once the day is over I won’t ever see you again. There won’t be this next time out on the horizon that I can look forward to seeing you. I’ll have pictures and empty blankets and empty clothes and an empty bed.

It’s 3:39 in the morning, the day you’ll be buried. I can’t bring myself to say “Goodbye”. All I can say is: I love you.

So we’ll keep you updated after we find out more.

Aside of the usual spitting up, nothing is happening. Her next doctors appointment is August 16th, so we will let you know how that goes.

Til then,
Danielle