Yesterday was April 14th.
For the second year in a row, I’ve found that the lead-up to this date - the anniversary of Sofia's death - is much harder than the day itself. There is a phantom weight to the first two weeks of April. My body seems to remember the timeline before my mind even acknowledges it. It is a slow, heavy retracing of steps—a return to the vigil.
Last year, I thought this "anticipatory grief" might be a fluke of the first anniversary. Now I see it for what it is: the mind’s way of traveling back to those final moments to make sense of a finality I wasn't ready for at the time.
The Haze of the Protector
When I look back at those last days in the hospital, I don’t see sterile walls or clinical bustle. I see a soft glow. I remember an utter, heavy stillness that felt like it shielded us from the rest of the world.
In those moments, I wasn't "grieving" yet. I was a protector. My entire world had narrowed down to one goal: providing Sofia a peaceful transition to whatever was next.
Friday night remains etched in my mind—sleeping by her side, waking in the dark every few minutes just to check her breath. She was wrapped in her “pop-it blanket,” a treasure knit by my mother before she passed away from her own battle with cancer. Sofia never met granny, but she inherited that blanket, and it was a “must-have” for every hospital stay. In her hands, she held a push pop candy and a pack of Pocky sticks—the small, simple comforts of a child in the midst of an impossible journey.
Trading Presence for Peace
By Saturday afternoon, the silence of the room felt heavier. I remember one moment so vividly it still catches my breath: Sofia’s eyes locked onto mine. In them, I saw a flicker of fear and desperation.
As a parent, that is the most frightening feeling in the world—wondering if your child is sensing something profound that they don't have the words to describe. In that moment, we made the choice to increase her medicine. We traded her conscious presence for her comfort.
It was a heavy trade. She fell into a deep, unresponsive sleep, and for hours, she simply lay on my chest. While family and hospital volunteers helped keep Carter’s young mind busy, my focus was solely on her. I felt a profound sense of relief seeing her finally comfortable, even as the silence in the room deepened.
An Unexpected Grace
In the quiet of that afternoon, Sam had reached out to the hospital staff, asking if someone could come visit us—perhaps a chaplain or a counselor—just to offer a bit of support in the heavy stillness. We had no specific expectations; we just knew the weight of the moment was growing.
When a local priest walked through the door, we didn't realize how much his presence would change the atmosphere of the room. We certainly hadn't expected a baptism. We had always planned for that celebration to happen in Mazatlan, just as we had for Carter, but life had moved faster than our plans.
The priest was a vessel of unexpected kindness and care. I am not an especially religious person, but as he began to speak, I felt a shift. With Sofia still asleep in my arms, he performed her baptism. Hearing him speak of what laid ahead for her, while I held her small, quiet body against my chest, provided a comfort I didn't know I was looking for. I was acting as her anchor while he helped prepare her, and us, for the next part of her story.
No Cure, Only Love
Now that the anniversary has passed and the calendar has turned to April 15th, the "lead-up" tension has begun to dissipate, leaving behind that familiar, steady ache.
I’ve stopped looking for a "cure" for this grief. I’ve realized that the pain is just a mirror. If the grief feels immense, it’s only because the love was—and is—just as big.
I have no regrets about those final hours spent with Sofia. Every second spent in that hazy, silent room was a blessing. Sofia was with us for nearly four years. It wasn't enough, but it was everything. I would do it all over again—the joy and the heartbreak—without a single hesitation.
I’d do it all for her.
So many of the photos I have from those final few days are too hard or too intimate to share. The one I've chosen to represent her final days is one I've shared before. You'll notice the Pocky sticks, the push pop candy and the "pop-it blanket" (That was what Sofia called it). I hope you'll also recognize the peace in which she rested.
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