A slow fade

And so it begins.
I can't blame others really, life moves on.

I know it doesn't mean you have forgotten her.
But the pain of every Friday morning.
The powerful sting of each 24th.
A never-ending string of anniversaries.
All mine to bear.

And although I can accept that I cannot change what has happened.
The diagnosis.
The way it all fell apart.

Her death.
The pain lingers, every day.
Seven months later it may be softer.

Not as crippling.
But the fact still remains that I am here and she is not.
And every 24th is yet another reminder of the life that was stolen from my beautiful baby girl.

One year post-diagnosis

It has been one year since our world stood still as the word "leukemia" timidly squeezed passed the ER doctor's lips, coaxed out by our begs to just tell us what she knew. I can remember standing there while my insides just crumpled. Looking at my baby girl, dreading the thought of her leaving this world, and so confused by what was happening in our lives. We were simple people. This, cancer, this life, it belonged to others. Not us.

And then came the parade of reassurances.

She is the perfect age. How can that even be a thing? No age is perfect for cancer.

Her numbers were good.. for being only the right amount of bad.

She was going to fight and win, they assured us.

It was going to be a hellish two years, but she would come out on the other end of it.

She would be stronger.

I didn't want this to be a big deal. I didn't want to be one of those "moms". I created a private group page instead of a public page. I didn't start a blog. I gently whispered to those closest to us what was happening. I intended to drop our heads, strap on our boots and trudge through the next few years without disturbing anything or anyone around us.

But here we are.

One year later.

Back to this day.

Without her.