Today marks five months since Sofia left us. Depending on the lens I choose to view that through, I can feel the weight of every single minute of that five months or I can feel like it just happened. Either way I look at it, it remains so hard. I can't put into words just how much I miss her every single day. Not always in a sad way though. Most of the time I spend missing her is actually spent smiling or laughing to myself thinking of the memories I have.
I've done nearly everything suggested to me to work through the grief. I've been working with an incredible counsellor. I've been writing in this blog. I've pushed myself to lean into pain and I've given myself permission to take breaks from the grief. I could fill this page with a laundry list of things I've done since April 14th to cope with the emptiness I feel every day. While I probably feel her loss more than ever today, I am getting better at coping with the symptoms that come from that loss. The advice I've taken and the effort I've made is working and I have no plans to stop pursuing more ideas. Which brings me to today's post. Another suggestion from a book I've referenced in previous posts:
Write a letter to the loved one you lost.
To my beautiful baby girl, Sofia,
July 16, 2020. The day my life felt complete. I knew it instantly too. You were such a perfect complement to an already amazing family. Our first few days together were so beautiful. Covid had kept family and friends away and those early hours filled with so many of your firsts were spent with just you, your Mom and I. I didn't need time to pass to acknowledge how incredibly meaningful this time with you was. I felt it in every second that we spent together. What an incredible start to our life together. Little did I know at the time, as good as those first few days were, the best was yet to come.
You were such an incredible baby. I know you did cry and have those usual baby moments, but I don't remember them today. I only remember those piercing blue eyes, those lips that seemed to speak so loud even when they were silent and the absolutely heavenly way you slept. Perfection personified. Couldn't get better, right? Too good to be true almost.
Your personality really starts to shine in the months after your first birthday. You were the most caring and loving little girl. You were happy on your own but loved the company of the ones you loved the most. The ones you chose for your inner circle would love you just as hard. Quiet and reserved as you could be, your sense of humour was witty beyond your years and always seemed to show up at the most perfect moments. That "spunk" that would soon become your trademark was starting to show itself. I admired your strength to stand up for yourself even back then.
Although I loved you to bits and felt such a special bond with you always, I know I still took you for granted at times during those first couple of years. You were perfect, fit so easily into our life and I loved you so much. But life was busy and I regret not being more present at times. Right as you were about to turn three, we learned you were sick and from that day on, I could not have been more present. And so grateful to have that lesson taught to me early enough to take advantage of it. In your last 270 days, I would soak in everything and even though our time together would be cut short, it somehow feels so full.
From the second you walked into that hospital your bravery, grace and courage were on full display. I remember like it was yesterday holding your hand in the ER while they inserted your first IV. I always wonder what you were thinking in those early days. Surely you were scared. How could you not be? Your life was just ticking along like it should be until it was suddenly stopped in its tracks. Here you were in an unfamiliar place, your parents clearly anxious beyond belief and yet you seemed to remain relatively composed. We made funny headbands and necklaces together while the ER staff poked away at your arm. You joked that you had an superhero arm like Papa Lee.
As your father, it was so hard in those first couple of weeks. Instead of playing outside with your friends like you should have been doing in the summer, you spent your days being sedated for one test after another. Biopsy, ultrasounds, central line surgery, CT scans, MRIs, MIBG scans and probably more I'm lucky to have forgotten. Funny thing is I bet you didn't even know all that was happening to you. Most of the time you just knew you couldn't eat or drink for a while and before you knew it, you'd wake up in a new room and be offered a popsicle. You were suffering so much and it felt like you were getting worse instead of better. I wanted so bad to throw you in the car and take you home. But just like that first night in the ER, you would handle it all so much better than I could. Even on the days you felt the worst, you'd still find a way to smile so brightly and inspire us all.
You would settle in quicker than I did but eventually we all accepted what we were up against. The days and nights we would spend together in the hospital would somehow be some of my favourite memories. An endless loop of Gabby's Dollhouse or Disney movies on the TV, making ice creams with the wooden set from the playroom, colouring, puzzles, stroller rides through every hall and around the property on the sunny days, blowing bubbles, playing with your doctor kit, scavenger hunts, riding your red bike, morning trips downstairs to Starbucks, gift shop visits, playdoh, lunch together in the cafeteria. I could go on and on but I think you get the point :) Even the times you would yell at me to bring you your water are now moments I wish I could run back to. I promise you... every single moment no matter how hard at the time was a blessing. Remember how I would pretend to take a picture? My way of locking in that memory forever. You'd join in too and use your own pretend camera to lock in your own memories. I hope you're holding onto those memories as tightly as I am.
You fought so hard and, after a couple of rounds of chemo, they would finally let us take you home. A day I will never forget for as long as I live. I remember being so mad during the earlier part of the day as it felt like the nurses would never let us leave. The car was loaded and we were more than ready to go but we had medicine to wait for, a bandage change to be done (I bet you're happy you don't have those anymore!!) and some supplies for home were still being prepared for us. It was a long wait and we wouldn't get home until early evening. The wait was worth it though. I remember watching you settle right back in almost instantly. Cooper on one side, Carter with his iPad on the other. Hanging out on the couch together like any other day before. I was so happy to have you home and have our family back together. The summer was hard but that day brought us a lot of hope. And your recovery was so encouraging. Your strength remarkable. Such an inspiration.
While we still had regular visits back to the hospital and week long stays for treatment, our home felt full once again. So many incredible days would follow. Fortunate to be away from work, I was able to spend so many of them with you. Pumpkin patches, trick or treating, Nutella for breakfast, Giants game, Christmas Eve and morning at home with family and friends, Christmas Day and night together with Mama and Carter in the hospital, library trips, cooking in your play kitchen, helping me cut the veggies in our real kitchen, video games with Carter, mornings on the couch with your milky, snow days, grocery trips, pizza downtown, aquarium visits, bike rides, scooter rides. Oh no...I'm rambling on again. Every moment with you was so special so it's hard to keep the lists short. I miss them all so much.
Your bravery and courage was so much more than I could have ever imagined was possible for someone so young. I know you had some really hard days and I wish I could have taken those away from you. So, as much as I miss you and wish you were still here with me, I am grateful those hard days are now behind you. Your life was so much shorter than it should have been but I need you to know that you have left us all better than before we knew you. I learned so much from you and I will never stop trying to honour you in how I live the rest of my life.
I loved our time together so much. Our home is not the same without you here. I don't know what to believe but I am choosing to believe I will see you again.
Every night, I repeat to myself the same thing Carter told me to. And I will end my letter to you the same way.
Sofia, I love you. Sofia, I miss you so much. Hope you're having fun up there.
I don't know exactly why the book recommends us to write letters to the loved ones we've lost. But I guess that one of the reasons might be that most people don't tell their loved ones everything they would have liked and a letter might be a way to make up for that. Well, not me! I told Sofia everything I ever wished I could. She knew without a whisper of doubt how much I adored her and how much she meant to me. I'm proud of that. I know I need to be better at that with the ones still here with me though.
Beautifully written Ryan.
ReplyDeleteI’m deeply touched by your words. The way you’ve captured the love, joy, and heartache of Sofia’s life is incredibly moving. It’s clear that your bond with her was extraordinary, and I can’t imagine the weight of that loss. Your ability to find both laughter and peace in the memories, even amidst the pain, is a testament to your strength and resilience. Thank you for sharing this beautiful letter Ryan. It reminds me of how important it is to cherish every moment with our loved ones. May you continue to find comfort in the love you shared with Sofia
ReplyDeleteSo beautifully said. Thank you for sharing all those memories of Sofia. She is thought of and talked about all the time at home. We miss her deeply and are so so lucky to have had her in our lives.
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