the day before

Today is the four year anniversary of the last day that I would consider life normal. 

It wasn't May 18th, the day before Lucy was diagnosed with cancer, because even in that moment life -- although different from the path we would have chosen-- was still on a normal path.

It was just our new normal.

But today, our day to day seemingly continued along the new path. 

The kids were doing well with all the changes that the last 5 months had brought.

Ike was growing and learning despite his unusual daily surroundings.

Lucy was cancer free. 

She was healing.

To everyone involved in her case she was doing great.

We were all in a state of hope with how things were progressing.

Talking about what the future held.

The stories she would have to tell.

Conferring with her doctors about getting back home.

Planning her a huge birthday party to celebrate what she had overcome.

Nothing hinted that there could be any other path.

Tomorrow was supposed to be just another day.

She was going to finally get the damn tubes out and be able to speak.

We were supposed to finally be able to lay with her again.

Hold her.

Brush our cheeks against her soft, fuzzy head.

Even at 10, when her temperature was low, it didn't set off alarms. 

It was Goose being Goose, all part of our new normal.

It wouldn't be until early tomorrow morning that concern would begin to grow.

Concern that would quickly turn to panic.

And within hours it would all be over.

All hopes shattered.

Life was never going to be the same.

No more normal.

There is only everything that comes after.

A few favorites.

the void

the skies are gray
my heart is heavy
my mind is absent
the tears just fall

when did life become this
a monotonous cycle
day in and day out

plastered smiles
little genuine joy

sleeping is the high
dreams far superior
than the reality of life

the unfairness of it all
lows that just get lower
wins that never come

I need sunshine

year three

my sweet Lucy Selah
my goosey girl
my sunshine
you've now been gone from my arms longer than you were in them
and the unfairness of that all bears down on my soul

the world has moved on
new crisis, new drama
but I won't let your memory fade
I won't forget you
your beautiful brown eyes
your shocking blonde curls
those looks of yours
your cute baby voice
that sweet sass

I don't know why you had to suffer
I don't think I will ever fully understand any of it
you were so full of life
you had so much more to give
your brothers and sisters deserved more time
mom and dad needed more time

momma loves you forever and always
until we meet again
fly high, Goose

Lucy's 6th Birthday Memorial Donation and Blood Drive

We have discussed with Child Life and have decided that our donation this year will be HDMI blu-ray players and movies!! We would not have survived our months there had we not brought along our blu-ray player and movie collection from home. While PCH has dedicated movie channels, Lucy quickly grew bored of the limited options and often liked to only watch movies from the beginning (like most of us ha!). We want to be able to provide the same comfort to those still fighting by making players available to anyone who wants one.

Since supplying one to every room is not likely, our goal is to purchase 24 players and cords! Lofty, yes, but even if we fall short every single one we do manage to obtain will be so thoroughly appreciated. We will also do our traditional small goodie bag to be handed out to every patient on her birthday.

I have updated the birthday wish list on Amazon. There are a blu-ray player and HDMI cord listed as well as some movie ideas. If there are enough people interested in just donating funds to the effort I can begin a fundraiser. Please reach out if that is your preferred method of supporting the cause. 

I know we say it often, but I cannot fully express how grateful we are to those who continue to help us honor our Goosey girl. Phoenix Children's Hospital is always so appreciative of our donations, and those would only be possible with the help of Team Lucy Goose.

xoxo
Kim, Andy and the Bradford kidlets

If you would like to purchase an item to help with this year's birthday donation the amazon wishlist is located here >> Lucy Goose's Birthday Memorial

We will also be hosting our next blood drive on November 4, 2017 from 9AM-2PM. The drive will be located at Gateway Polytechnic Academy. For more details and to sign up visit Pints4Goose.com

Happy birth day, Lucy

Five years ago, shortly before the sun rose, on a Friday just like today I held my Lucy for the first time. Her birth wasn't quick or easy like her three older siblings; just as she would for the next 3 years, she did things her own way. From the moment she was in my arms my world shifted. Our connection, her piece of my soul, is unlike any of my other children.

Today, I want to choose to remember the beauty and the joy that her birth brought to my life. I want to honor the way she lived to her fullest every minute she was given on earth. Today I remember all her spunk, her beautiful blonde hair, her sweet smile, her glares and everything that made her my little Sunshine, my Lucy.

Today I honor your birth and your life and I promise to do my best to make it happy. Happy day of your birth, Goose. Fly free, baby girl.

Two years

Lucy Selah Bradford

November 4, 2011

Daughter, sister, cousin,

cartoon lover, Strawberry Shortcake addict,

silly face extraordinaire, pizza lover 

October 24, 2014

The last two years five months and 5 days have been filled with the hardest moments I have ever endured. There is so much more I want to say, but my heart just doesn't have the strength today. I love you, Goosey girl. And I can only hope to one day hold you in my arms again.

Two years ago...

Today, my Goose would have been celebrating two years of being cancer free.

I remember it all as crystal clear as the day it happened. The news being delivered unenthusiastically by our doctor--unaware that we had not yet been informed. The pure relief and joy that surged through my soul knowing we finally had a victory--- a solid, hard-fought victory under our belts.

The weeks of struggle and frustration, the hours of desperate prayer and cries for mercy, it had all finally brought us a win. 

Our princess, despite everyone's doubts, had not only achieved remission but she had done so with the drugs that were only used in hope that things would not get worse. The chemo that shouldn't have done it- did it.

There would be no more talks of palliative care, she had taken what was supposed to have been the hardest battle and kicked it's ass.

No where in our minds could we have ever foreseen that this victory, this battle against cancer, wasn't going to be the hardest.

Despite everything the last 12 weeks had tried to throw at her, how hard she fought to trudge out of the valley we would only get 6 weeks to celebrate on that mountain top before being plunged into an even deeper valley. An even deeper hell.

We had only 74 days to believe that cancer was the biggest enemy, and that she had defeated it... 74 days from the summer's greatest victory to the worst day of our lives.

74.

But my baby, she was nothing shy of a victorious warrior. Because she not only took out cancer, but she did with dignity and grace.

Maybe not always a smile on her face, but she was 100% true to herself.

So today I remember not only how short life truly is, and how quickly mountaintops can avalanche, but the beautiful and inspiring person that my Goose was.

My cancer-free warrior Sunshine.

Sinking

Some days life feels like a real bitch. Well, the truth is there are rare days when life does NOT feel like a punishment. I don't know what worse than rock bottom is but I'm pretty sure that's where I am. Honestly, how much further can I sink down? And it is no longer just the loss of my baby. That was rock bottom. It is what feels like the continual downward spiral of everything as a result of that loss. Most days I wonder if it wouldn't be safer to just stay in bed and not let anything attempt to happen, be it good or bad, because it's almost always bad. Without fail. And I know, I've heard it all. I try and tell myself all the same motivational speeches. I understand that life has to go on- believe me- I've lived it for the past 20 months. I keep thinking surely now God or the universe or whoever the hell it is that is in charge will grant me a break- give us just a glimmer of hope that the bad luck that seems to be raining down on our lives is all in our heads. I keep stretching for accomplishments, sure that when I hit that mark then life will turn for the better. If Andy could just get his real estate license--- If we just get away, go on vacation-- if I could just lose 30 pounds-- when I get that adrenaline rush from crossing the finish line-- if we could just get out of debt-- if we could just find my means to start the foundation. Nothing. It is as if every day were a Monday and I am just stuck in this hamster wheel, hoping to reach a better place. And I just keep spinning and spinning, getting more reckless and emotionless as the rotation counts climb. And I fear, every day, what's to come if I can't stop the spinning. If I can't find a purpose. And all I can do is latch onto the memory of my beautiful baby girl. And dream of what life should have been. Willing it to fix itself. To give me back what I should have had. What we should have had.

The classic Goose brood. And yet, so beautiful and full of life.

17 months

17 months ago this moment I stood, shocked and naïve, watching my life's worst moment played out before my eyes. Believing that just like so many instances in the five months prior, my baby girl would arrive at sunrise having hurdled yet another setback.
But sunrise never came that morning.
Only our surgeons delivering words that- for the second time in our lives- no parent ever wants to hear.
And now, 17 months later, every single brutal minute of that night and day still plays over and over in my head.
The last time I ever saw my baby girl's eyes haunts me.
Seventeen months later the what-ifs still swirl taunting me with the hopes of what could have been.
What should have been.

I haven't blogged much the past few months. I have so many thoughts, but the inability to translate them from my mind to words. I wish I could describe the state of my life. The way I all but stumble through every day. Never fully feeling. Anything. Feeling happy. But never true joy. Feeling sadness, but not true sorrow. Except my Goose. My eyes well only for her anymore. I wish I could explain how empathetic my former self was. How I felt the hurts and griefs of those around me and could sympathize. But now I can express my condolences, but my words feel empty. How that lack of care has spread to so many areas of my life. All of it, really.
How completely and utterly broken my soul is.
And knowing that nothing will ever restore it.
The world continues on around me, forcing me along.
And all I want is to be back 22 months ago.
Finding the path that I had to have missed.
That path that keeps my Sunshine here with me.
The path that has my baby girl twirling in a pretty new dress preparing for Easter.
The path that didn't lead to here.
Rambling through my grief seventeen months later.

Where did we go wrong, Goosey girl?

World Cancer Day 2016

I have nothing kind to say about cancer.
I have nothing kind to say about the treatment that has been developed for cancer either.
I am appalled that in this day and age so little advances have been made in finding a safer and more effective treatment- especially for children.
I am so saddened that the focus is still so heavily on the treatment of adults with cancer, while children- little ones who have barely had a chance at living life- are suffering and dying.
I am disgusted that our precious baby girl is just another statistic, another victim to cancer and it's horrific treatments.
Do better, world.
End the greed and work to save our future- our innocent babies.

5 months. FIVE months.
NO baby should endure this much trauma and a tragic death in a mere five months of cancer treatment.

Running

Standing perfectly still. But running. Running to escape what seems to have become life. Running in hopes that someway, somehow all of this will just fix itself. Running to escape the cloud that seems to cover my mind, forming my own wall of ignorance in hopes that reality is really the dream and somewhere outside of this fog is real life, normalcy, waiting for me. Because over the course of fourteen months I have taken steps to recover from the trauma of losing my baby girl, but also numbed myself to everything else around me. And I just don't know how much longer I will be able to maintain the facade. And I am almost certain that I won't be able to handle the reality. So off I go. Running.

missing this Light, my strength

Our son was ran over by a train

And yet, as truly terrifying and traumatic as that event was it isn't the first, or most, traumatic event we have lived through.

And saying that, writing it, just makes it all feel that much more unfair.

I don't want to go into details here as we fully intend to take legal action, and honestly it is still too raw to comfortably recount. But in that instant, all I could do was scream for mercy, for grace to save my baby. The very thought of losing another child shook me to my core. Watching not even inches from him with no ability to stop what was happening is forever ingrained on my mind. Just as poignantly as the moment the doctor told us that this was the worst thing Lucy was dealing with (having watched her entire journey over the summer) and he would do everything he could to help, but this wasn't good.

Or the moment the doctors laid Lucy in my arms before turning off the ventilator.
And the paralyzing fear of it all rushed in.
But our son, our Baby Isaac, he lived.
And I truly believe that his sister was there with him, protecting his tiny body from the crushing weight of the train.
Sparing his life.
Knowing that her baby brother couldn't leave us just yet.

Thank you, Goosey, for continuing to be the very best big sister and protecting your brother.
We can barely make it a day without you here, but knowing you are there for your Baby Isaac makes it just slightly more bearable today.

Ike embracing his guardian angel sister. This photo was not staged.
I wholeheartedly believe he felt gratitude towards her and this was how he could express it.

Lucy's final resting place

It occurred to me that we never publicly made known where Lucy's final resting place was. And so, I thought today- on the thirteenth month since she has been gone- that I would share it with you.

Lucy's death was unexpected. There was no buffer, no final days, no warning. I don't know that I can say sudden- as we had about an 8 hour window from the time we knew it was bad until she was given her last breath. In that window of time, her final resting place wasn't even a thought. But before we left the hospital, we had to make a decision. It took me less than a second to know.

Lucy was cremated.

The very idea of trying to preserve a body that had killed her from the inside out, burying it in the earth, away from me. It was never an option. Ever. The first two-and-a-half years of her life, she never slept more than a room away from me. Really 99% of that time she was at most a few feet from me. So to imagine her eternal sleep several miles, at best, from me... I couldn't do it.

I carry a part of her with me, everywhere I go. Around my neck.

The majority of the rest of her ashes are inside a panda.
A panda I'm sure you all have seen.

When I began to look at urns, nothing suited what I wanted for her. They were so hard, cold, boring. A couple of months after she passed away, I was at the bank with my mom. Through a serious of unusual circumstances Lucy came up and the banker mentioned that he had lost infant twins. Then he showed me a photo of his older three children holding their baby brothers- two build-a-bears. I knew instantly that that was what I wanted.

I wanted Lucy to be with us.
Capable of being held. Talked to. Cried with.

And so the search began for a bear that represented our Goosey. A goose was, naturally, our top choice but it didn't exist. I found a panda on their website, but unfortunately it had been discontinued. We contemplated the Hulk bear because, well, "Hulk smash!". But I just wasn't completely satisfied. A desperate call into corporate and they were able to locate a panda for us.

The kids were all involved in the creation of her panda. They did the heart wish. They helped stuff her (after minor surgery to allow the ashes we had brought with to fit). They brushed her and cleaned her. We added her amber necklaces that I had been wearing. Our Goose had finally found a resting place, right at home where she belongs. With us. As for the rest of her ashes, and maybe even this panda, I will have the children spread with me when I am once again joined with my baby girl.

Fly high, Goose. We all love you and miss your sassy little soul.

How do I live?

How do I live without you?
I want to know,
How do I breathe without you?
If you ever go,
How do I ever, ever survive

One of my favorite "love" songs, and ironically the first and only song I heard this morning. And I really do wonder, how am I living? I'm not even sure I could fully call what I am doing living, more surviving. Desperately trying to occupy every second of my day. Holding my shit together when I'm out of the house because to face reality in front of others is just too much. Every moment, my baby is on my mind. Sometimes right at the forefront of every thought and action, sometimes lingering in the background as I think about how these moments would be different if everything hadn't changed. 

My Lucy should have turned 4 yesterday.

And as I reflect on the time when each of the older three turned four- how interactive and aware they were. The little people they had become. The opinions they had formed and would now readily share. Who could she have been? What could she have done?

She was already such an amazing human. So completely herself, not working about conforming to anyone's idea of who or what she should be. The energy with which she approached every day. Never giving up. Be it as an baby, demanding attention and controlling the rest of the family. Or as a headstrong toddler- dominating over her older siblings. Or, for the brief time she was allowed, as a big sister. Finally with a little minion of her own to mold. She didn't even realize just how courageous she was. The battles she had to fight. The pain she had to endure. She didn't whine or protest. She just went to war, doing what her body knew it had to do. The word is over used, and I am a primary suspect. But my daughter, my Lucy, was truly amazing. 

And I hate that the rest of the world may never know that.

May never know what she had the potential to accomplish.

She would have moved mountains. Without a doubt.

My sweet Sunshine, I can only hope that the party they threw for you in heaven was as wonderful as the one I would have given you here. I don't know how I live without you. I'm not even sure most days that I want to. But, to give up would be no honor to you. So I press on. 

Happy 4th birthday, princess.

Our last birthday together. 

My first trip around the sun without you.

My Lucy,

Big Mamas. Goosey girl. My Sunshine. 

There are no words worthy of the pain I feel without you here. We should be planning your fourth birthday. Going on preschool field trips. Going to Target for no reason and getting Starbucks or milkshakes (shhhh, just don't tell daddy!) you should be chasing Isaac around, helping keep him entertained while the bigs are at school. There are so many things we should be doing. I miss you more than any words or actions could ever express. My heart will never be whole again. I do not know how I have made it the past 365 days. I have no idea how I will continue for however long my body can sustain on this earth. I can only hope that you are truly happy and free. And that one day, you will be in my arms again. You are the bravest and strongest little girl I will ever know.

I miss you. I love you. 

You are forever my baby girl.

The last birthday she would celebrate here on earth with us.

The beginning of the end

It's been one year since I have been able to hold my living baby girl in my arms.
One year since the word "Momma" has passed over her lips.
One year since we have talked non-sense or giggled over something ridiculously silly.
One year since I've heard her sweet little voice cry out "Baby Isaac" as he arrived back at the hospital.
One year since she has, I swear intentionally, annoyed me by allowing the movie she picked to get 5 minutes in before deciding she could not bear to see another second of it and I had to change it.
One year since I have crawled onto the horrible foam excuse for a hospital mattress and snuggled her against my chest.

We had come to accept that cancer, clinics, hospitals were going to be our new life.
We had accepted that this journey was clearly not going to be a simple one for her.
She wasn't going to get the "cake-walk" treatment path that some kids seem to get.
But she was a fighter, born feisty for a reason.

But then it happened so fast, we didn't even get a chance to warn her.
To soothe her.
To promise her that everything would be ok.
We thought it was.
We thought it would be a few days, a week, and she would fight back.
That was just who she was.
This was just going to be another notch on her belt.

If I had known I was saying good-bye it would have been different.
Everything would have been different.

But I didn't.

Ten months

The tenth month.

It's been harder this month as most kiddos Goose's age have headed off to preschool. Nieces/nephews/friends have safely passed the 2.5 mark and celebrated third birthdays.
Life has continued on, and I shouldn't begrudge others for the peace they have been graced with.
But she also shouldn't be gone.
Maybe this week (month... forever....) -for me- think twice before you vent.
Because what feels earth-shattering to you, someone out there would give the world for.

The setting may look familiar, but some of the "outtakes" showcasing our goofy girl's personality.

I'm glad it was rarely a one-shot photo with her. I have hundreds of "other" photos that captured moments that may have seemed meaningless then but are so precious to me now.

A bittersweet anniversary

A year ago today I was laying in our "suite" ready to take a nap when our doctor came in and delivered the news that her bone marrow aspirate had shown no residual disease.
She was cancer free.
Our amazing little girl had achieved what the doctors were starting to think would be impossible.
Not only was she cancer free, she was healing amazingly, her swelling was going down to where she was starting to really look like "Lucy" again, her sassy personality still shining through- resilient as ever after almost 2 months stuck in a hospital.
And now here I am.
Just one year later.
With no Goose to celebrate with.

The many faces of Goose.

Nine months. Nine things.

273 days
39 weeks
9 months
Since I lost my Lucy.

It has been quite sometime since I have blogged. Life has been busy with the kids out for summer. And I sometimes feel like a broken-record and I don't want to just continually sing the same song over and over to people. But today I just want to share nine things, in memory of the nine months since my baby girl was taken, that reflect my heart and my iron-gated mind. Know that this is what is floating around in my head 99% of the time, and maybe 3 people have heard actual bits and pieces that have escaped.

one.

She had an absolutely beautiful name, Lucy Selah, and a personality-perfect nickname, Goose. Please use them. Our children have begun to use it more, while playing, while talking, not a day goes by now that I don't hear it half a dozen times. And it brings so much peace to my soul every time they do. Because it is a subtle outward reminder to me that they haven't forgotten their sister.

We almost didn't name her Lucy. We had known from the moment Zoee was born, that if we had another girl she would be Lucy. But when the day came we had acquaintances that were preparing to name their baby girl (due a little over 4 months earlier than us), Lucy. We sat trying to find another name that came close and came up with nothing. I am grateful everyday that we stuck with our original choice, because Lucy was a Lucy. No other name could have fit her more perfectly. She was our light. I have no shame in admitting that when Hansen's Middle of Nowhere album came out I was a fan. Particularly of their song Lucy. I never bothered to really comprehend the words they sang until I, too, left my Lucy. Unfortunately, not by choice and my baby didn't get to say goodbye, but the lyrics reflect my heart just the same.

The day that I left Lucy

A tear fell from her eye 

Now I don't have nobody, and I was such a fool

On the day that I left Lucy.

The day that I left Lucy she cried, then said goodbye

Now it's done, and it's over, and I am all alone

On the day that I left Lucy

Now I don't have anymore songs to sing

'Cause you were everything, everything to me

I didn't realize I felt this way, until that day

Today I'm missing Lucy, and you say that she's OK, I hope she is.

Now I don't have nobody and no one will ever replace...

My Lucy

I love Lucy, Lucy...

On the day that I left Lucy...my Lucy

two.

Talk about her. Talk about her from before she was diagnosed. About her journey. About how she has affected you. Nothing you say could upset me. (But please, don't test this with outrageous statements- see number six.) She was my everything (another blog post one of these days), and to not have her here is a pain that cannot be comprehended by most anyone we know. But nothing makes my heart soar more than to hear her name, talk about her journey or to laugh about her goofy antics. So please, if something is ever on your mind and you are trying to decide whether to say something or not- do it! Text messages, wall posts, comments, actual face-to-face conversation (abnormal, I know)- whatever form you like, please do it. I may not know how to respond. It may be a like, a yellow heart, a sunshine, a smile. But know that inside, my love tank is being filled every time.

three.

Remind me of my other children. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but please do. Gently. A lot of my struggle is remembering that I do still have four beautiful and amazing children on this earth with me. My head can be so consumed in what I have lost, that I forgot to relish in what I do still have. I am trying to be better, but there will always be room for improvement.

four.

Don't forget my husband. I know sometimes even I do when it comes to Lucy. All the time that I was granted with our baby girl while he was working last summer and helping care for our other four, was time that he wasn't. He struggles just the same as I do. He wants to hear his baby's name as much as I do. He needs comforting too. She was just as much a part of him, as she was me.

five.

Counseling. We are in it. I have been since December and Andy just started. It has been pivotal in our processing of the last year. For some reason, it feels taboo to say the word- counseling - like it is something to be ashamed of. I will find any other way to word that I am going, but the fact is I go to counseling to process the trauma of the last 14 months. It isn't some magical cure that I will be happy and stop talking about my baby. Sorry, never going to happen. But I can talk about her, look at her pictures, touch her earthly items left behind, and pick myself back up and rejoin the world with more ease. 

six.

Don't compare. For the love of all that is good and holy, unless you have felt the pain of being forced to walk away from your lifeless child, you do not understand what I am feeling. It is not the same as losing a grandparent, parent, pet, even a sibling. My kids, God-willing, will never know the pain I feel. They have a pain that is all their own, and we will help them to process that as it comes to light for them. But the pain of losing a child, especially one so young, there is no comparison. I will walk away from you, and there will be damage done.

seven.

Faith. I get it. I had/have it? But God is not a magical cure-all. He had his chance to prove that to me and he failed. You can hate that statement, but it is not going to make it any less true to me right now. Trying to continually shove him back into my life is not going to help. I will continue to push back harder. Does that mean I don't believe in him? No. But right now we are on a break. Let it be. If and when I am ready, I will cross that line back into church.

eight.

A piggy-back on seven really, but please stop referencing Job. I get it. I read the book (as a teen, mind you.) Maybe it is fine with Andy, I won't speak for him here. But for me, I swear the next time someone tells me to trudge on because look what Job went through, I may well punch you. With a fractured faith, throwing the story of a dude who lost everything but still came through ok is not helping. At all. If Satan is playing some game with God using me as their pawn, it is definitely not going to help the faith issue.

nine.

Continue to live like Lucy. She had a resilience that astounds me still to this day. She took the total shit-hand that was given to her, and smiled through it. Through counseling, family, good friends I can say that most every day is a good day anymore. Not a day goes by that my Goose isn't on my mind, that I don't miss her sassy little soul. But the good memories outweigh the bad ten-fold these days. Some days, like today, are hard. I break down as my mind automatically plays back that morning with no pause or eject button to reach for, the literal ache in my chest as my heart breaks, yet again, remembering what has been stolen from me. But I stand back up, send love to my girl, and I have to continue on. There is no choice. I will live today like my Lucy would have.

If only I had known what the next three weeks would throw at us.

Seeking a mentor

Can you help Andy and I?
Do you know someone or are you that someone?
We are ready to dive in on beginning a non-profit foundation in Lucy's honor.
We have spoken with her doctor and child life and think we have found a niche that needs filled that is dear to our hearts.
We have no intention of building this with anything but a well thought out and carefully formed foundation.
Clearly, this is new to us.
We would appreciate any and all help that anyone can provide.
If you have done this before and are willing to take the time to walk by us as we establish ourselves we would be incredibly grateful.