Today, I went into your room, hunted through the perpetual mess on top of your dresser, and found your Star Wars charm bracelet. Hoping against hope that it would fit, as I knew it was always just a little too big for you. It’s perfect. I’m wearing it now, and realizing how heavy it must have felt on your wee bony wrist.
It still doesn’t seem real that 2 weeks ago today Dr Benbrick told us your CT scan showed no brain activity and you had an irreversible brain lesion. That in less than 24 hours, a virulent, aggressive bug took you from being my bright, clever, joyful, funny girl and put you into a trauma bed surrounded with tubes and wires.
I struggle to cry. When I imagine you in my mind’s eye, all I see is either the frenetic time at the hospital in Jonzac (I keep going over and over what happened, could I have done something different, should I have pushed harder for them to do something??), or the terribly sad stay in CHU Nantes waiting for antibiotics to clear the bacteria so that we could donate your organs. I wish I had asked the nurses to let me hug you in the ICU instead of just holding your hand. I wish I had known what to say to you when the only thing I could feel was my heart breaking into a million tiny pieces. And yet I cannot release any of this emotion through tears.
When I look at pictures of you, I am struck again at how you were my perfect wee miracle baby, and how proud I am of you. I cannot believe you are gone.
I cannot cry, but my heart literally aches.
And the bracelet is perfect. As were you, in all of your imperfections.