Feeling my faith swirl the drain

I'm becoming convinced that Facebook is out to be the death of me. Someone really needs to get on the ad department about using some better sense with a profile that clearly belongs to a grieving parent. Like the constant ad for a personalized children's book where they use the name "Lucy" to try and get me to click. Cruel. Or the suggestions for articles that just feel like a spear to the side. It seems to be a common theme, or maybe I am just more acutely aware of it- miracles, guardian angels, faith, blah blah blah. A man crushed between two cars- his guardian angel was with him.... teenage girl in a crash, no chance of survival but they prayed. Oh, they prayed.  And God sent a miracle! I get that these things literally have nothing to do with Goose's case, but to parents who prayed and had people praying around the world, constantly, it feels like a direct jab at my faith. I must not have been pure enough of soul for mine to matter. I don't read my Bible daily, or evangelize to every person walking by, so I haven't logged enough points to earn a miracle. Her guardian angel must have been out partying,  dropping the ball, something because my god did they fail. And it makes me mad at God. It makes me wonder why I've spent my life believing that if I just have faith and trust Him, He will always provide. Because taking my baby girl from me. That doesn't feel like providing. That feels like having the door slammed in my face. And it's left me wondering why even bother. I can only hope that Goose is truly resting in a place as beautiful as Heaven has always been described. But right now, I'm not ready to believe that there was a greater divine purpose here.

Because no post is complete without this angelic face.

Twelve weeks

As I write this, it has been exactly 12 weeks since Dr. Egan reported back on her CT scan. Twelve weeks since he said that he was going to do his best, but this was "bad", the worst thing she has had to battle.
Twelve weeks since we were thrown a curveball that should have been thrown to someone else. Murderers, rapists, abusers... anyone but her.
Twelve weeks since I stood by, frozen, listening to her doctors debate her stability and how far they could move her. Interventional radiology or the operating room? They wanted both but they were on opposite sides of the world it seemed.
Twelve weeks since I waited, praying to God that Andy would make it to the hospital.
Twelve weeks since her surgeon walked into the room and, for even a moment, I had hope that if anyone could save her it was him.
Twelve weeks since I held her soft, fragile little fingers in mine, begging her to keep fighting.
Twelve weeks since I've felt her silky, blond hair, finally growing back in from what should have been her hardest trial in life.
Twelve weeks since my children had to kiss a baby sister goodbye.
Twelve weeks since I cradled my princess in my arms for the last time as she left this horrible, unfair world.
Twelve weeks since my heart was ripped from my chest and left in room 6115.
Twelve weeks.

The last photo I have of her perfect, unobstructed, little face. (October 5th)

Do they even notice?

Do they even notice? Do they not realize someone is missing? Do they not care? We have lived here for nearly three years surrounded by the same people. She toddled down these sidewalks, rolled by in her stroller to the park, cruised along on her scooter and bike. Right in front of you. Her blond hair peeking out from under her helmet. She screamed, laughed, giggled, babbled on... are you not even aware of her absence? These people that live not even a stones throw from the home she lived in. I cannot understand it. Do they even notice?

Please don't forget that she was here, that she existed. Life moves on, I get it, but please just remember her. She was too awesome of a person to have not left an imprint on this world.

Regrets

So many. Every day I try my best to keep my mind and body occupied because if I don't I fall into the hole. The hole of continual anger and what-ifs and whys. And I get so mad at myself for all the things I cannot change. That I cannot take back. I am so mad at myself for every whine and need to make a Target run to "get away". Because every minute that I walked out of that room was a minute that I cannot get back with her. A minute that I wasn't there for her when she asked for me. A minute that I wasn't holding her hand in those last weeks, rubbing her soft hair, letting her know how brave and strong she is. Every one of those minutes are gone. Every night that I left is another night that I didn't get to sing to her. I didn't NEED to recharge. I didn't NEED to tend to the other kids. They are here. Now she isn't. Regrets. So very many.