Five Years

 

I rarely include photos of Waverly's last days on my social media, but I thought I would share this beautiful picture of Wavey taken a few days before she died. It was taken by my dear friend, as we snuggled on the couch watching Cinderella with BaaBaa and Minnie Mouse in her arms. She looks so incredibly peaceful, yet unable to open her eyes, eat, or speak.

The fact that five years have passed since her death is incomprehensible. I cannot believe she would be seventeen years old, in her junior year of high school. Matt and I were recently reflecting on this and we spoke about how difficult it is to imagine what she would be like. When she was diagnosed at age four, we knew her time with us was short. As the disease progressed, we were in persistent toddlerdom. While I love the idea of imagining all of the wonderful things she would have accomplished, I am stopped by my desire to not idealize her and all she would be. Maybe it is my enneagram four-ness or the sense that she drew such a short straw in life already. It is easier, now, to simply remember all she was. And all she always will be.

We spent the last weekend in Cape May for a mini escape to one of our favorite places in an effort to focus on each other and remember. I always spend time searching for sea glass as I wander the beaches. The first time I found sea glass was on Prince Edward Island with Waverly. It is a little tradition for me to walk and talk to her as I search. On my final day of hunting, after not being able to find a single sliver, I had my back turned to the surf. I wave snuck up behind me and soaked my shoes. I could almost hear Wavey laughing. And as I looked down, there was a piece of sea glass. My little jokester relishing in my soggy feet, but rewarding me with a treasure.

I am halfway through the day. My eyes are constantly dripping tears. I have sad songs on repeat. I took off of work. I stayed in bed all morning. My phone has been dinging with texts and fellow grieving moms have called. Flowers have been delivered to our door. I walked in the cold for a coffee, enjoying the crisp air and crunching of leaves beneath my feet. A candle is burning. We will have a fire and wine tonight, remembering and mourning.

I miss you, Waverly Mae.