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Description
When parents fight with each other, or die too young, it is the child that suffers greatest. When a parent loses their child, there is no place we are sent to. No place where we are given all we require. There is no place where children come and say, “Yes, I would very much like to adopt this Mommy. I find I am already deeply in love with her.” When tragedy strikes, there is no orphanage for parents. When our little girls or boys are ripped from our hearts, we as adults are forced to plow our way through the tragedy and keep on moving through life.

The words “I’m sorry” are no longer a simple apology, something you might mutter to someone you bump into on the bus. It is no longer a phrase of indignation when someone says something you can’t believe. When you’ve lost a child, it becomes the most heard phrase through your day. It is a simple apology spun and woven into words of sympathy and pity. It’s what everyone says when they don’t know what else they can tell you.

Years back, a few precious months after my daughter was born, my young wife passed away. Kimberly was only seventeen at the time, but lovely and perfect in every way. She wasn’t out of high school at the time, and even with the baby she insisted on plowing her way through to graduation, and I had no intention of standing in her way.

So I took up a part time job, working evenings after she’d return home from school. I spent my days with my baby, precious, shining, gorgeous Annabelle. I’d never been good with children, yet there I was everyday, trusted by friends and family, to take care of this wide-eyed bundle of joy. And in Annabelle’s eyes, I could do no wrong. I was her Daddy, and though she always seemed to light up extra bright when Kimberly came home, she adored and trusted me in only ways a baby girl can.

Everyone says Annabelle was lucky to be so young when Kimberly died, only a few months old, but I could see in her eyes that she understood her mother wasn’t coming home again. The day half of my heart vanished, I noticed the tiny, sparkling shine in my daughter’s eyes disappear; it was as if her innocence had floated away with her mother’s last breath.

I remember that day…I woke up to shrill screaming. When I glanced around I noticed it was sounding through the baby monitor, the red lines bright as my wife’s shrieks rang through the speaker. I’d flung myself off the bed, taking sheets and blankets with me in my mad dash down the hall. My first thought was that something had happened to Annabelle.

When I reached the yellow nursery I found my wife on her knees in front of the crib, her arms wrapped around her abdomen. My eyes had darted to the crib, to my angel’s small body. She had been lying contently on her back, her chubby fists beating at the air, as if she were scolding Kimberly for waking her up. Annabelle had been completely unharmed.

I’d dropped to the ground in front of Kimberly; I’m sure my eyes had been full of confusion as she glanced up at me. She’d been shaking. So violently, in fact, that even my hands on her shoulders hadn’t been enough to steady her. She whimpered as she leaned into my chest. I can still remember the fear that coursed through my veins.

“Kimberly, what’s wrong baby? Talk to me,” I said, stroking her dark hair soothingly. I could tell she was trying to force words out, but she choked on them instead, and a few moments later she’d passed out in my arms. I’d shaken her harshly, tapped her cheeks with the back of my hand, but she wouldn’t open her eyes again. I scooped her up gently in my arms and ran for the bedroom. It was still cold outside, snow and slush covering the ground, so I ran her to the bedroom and wrapped her in one of the blankets I’d torn from the bed. It was then that I noticed how red the insides of her legs were.

I’d called our neighbour on the way out of the building, asking her to go into our apartment and feed and dress Annabelle for me. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I was rushing Kimberly to the hospital.

Two hours later, in the dull waiting room, a doctor walked in and shook my hand. “The truth is,” he began, and I had known nothing good was going to come of that conversation. “The truth is, we don’t know exactly what happened to Kimberly. We thought maybe it had been birth complications…but those would have shown up sooner than now. We didn’t know what to fix. I’m sorry Collan. Kimberly has passed on.”

Passed on. The way he said it made it seem like Kimberly was only traveling, and I had been but a brief stop on the way to her destination. I hadn’t heard another word he said after that. I’d simply nodded along with everything he said when I thought I had to answer, and before I knew it I was being led into the room where they’d taken Kimberly. “To say your goodbyes,” the doctor had said, before he shut the door and left me there with my pale wife.

I’d broken down, lying across my wife’s lifeless body as if I could have protected her. It was half an hour before someone came to pull me off of her, and the person that had was my mother-in-law. Her husband, son and daughter had been standing in the doorway, staring at Kimberly’s lifeless face. Kimberly’s mother had led us all out of her daughter’s room, her arm around my shoulder as best as she could manage. Out in the waiting room I can remember her parents telling me that I didn’t have to worry about anything, that they would take care of funeral costs and the like. I had only been able to nod numbly in response.

My brother-in-law had driven me home that morning, leaving my car at the hospital to be picked up later on. I’d stumbled my way up to the apartment. My neighbour placed a screaming Annabelle into my arms and told me that she’d been hysterical all morning. I’d muttered my thanks for her help and closed the door behind her. She hadn’t asked where Kimberly was; the hospital had called all emergency contacts for me.

Annabelle had refused to stop crying even for me, and I’d sank to the ground in the hallway, clutched my daughter tightly to my chest as I sobbed into her soft clothing.

Even now I find myself crying unexpectedly at times, the memories of that day imprinted on my mind. The doctors didn’t know what had caused it in the first place, but essentially Kimberly had bled out. The only thing that mattered to me was that I hadn’t been able to protect her. Her pained scream that morning still rings in my ears sometimes, chilling me to the bone. And I miss her so much more.

The four years following my wife’s death played out too quickly for me. I watched as my lovely girl, my Annabelle, grew, learning how to walk and talk so fast that I was afraid to blink and find that she was running off to college. As she’d gotten older she began to look more and more like her mother, all chocolate brown hair and large, bright brown eyes. What I was most proud of was her infectious smile, a perfect mirror image of my own.

The day that little girl was ripped from me was more than I could bear. I can’t even remember exactly what went wrong. All I can see now is her hand clutched tightly in mine as we crossed the road, a road that had been perfectly empty, and the bright lights of the red truck that came barreling around the corner straight for us. I can remember waking up in the hospital a few days later, my head bandaged and my arm in a cast and sling. Everything had been so white, blinding almost, and my head had been spinning uncomfortably from the drugs the nurses had pumped into me. Annabelle was the only thing on my mind.

After a great deal of debating with the doctor I was finally told what had happened. The driver had been drunk, and had just left the pub around the corner before he came upon my daughter and I. The doctor said I must have gotten out of the way faster than I could pull my daughter back, which explained why I wasn’t dead. With help from a nurse, the doctor had propped me up in bed and walked across the room. Curtains were drawn around another bed. When he’d pulled them back my eyes fell on Annabelle’s still body. She’d been hooked up to so many machines. I’d choked back a sob and clambered off the bed, heading straight for my daughter.

I’d had to stay in the hospital for a few more days for observation, but the doctors hadn’t known how much longer Annabelle would be there for. It turned out that it didn’t matter, because by the next afternoon, when I came out of my drug induced slumber, the doctor told me that Annabelle was dead.

Like I said, there is no orphanage for a parent that has lost everything. Had it not been for the angel that walked into my life just months after my daughter’s passing, I wouldn’t be here today either. I’ve lost both the loves of my life, a beautiful wife and a gorgeous daughter, and moving on day to day is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to face.

Description
When parents fight with each other, or die too young, it is the child that suffers greatest. When a parent loses their child, there is no place we are sent to. No place where we are given all we require. There is no place where children come and say, “Yes, I would very much like to adopt this Mommy. I find I am already deeply in love with her.” When tragedy strikes, there is no orphanage for parents. When our little girls or boys are ripped from our hearts, we as adults are forced to plow our way through the tragedy and keep on moving through life.

The words “I’m sorry” are no longer a simple apology, something you might mutter to someone you bump into on the bus. It is no longer a phrase of indignation when someone says something you can’t believe. When you’ve lost a child, it becomes the most heard phrase through your day. It is a simple apology spun and woven into words of sympathy and pity. It’s what everyone says when they don’t know what else they can tell you.

Years back, a few precious months after my daughter was born, my young wife passed away. Kimberly was only seventeen at the time, but lovely and perfect in every way. She wasn’t out of high school at the time, and even with the baby she insisted on plowing her way through to graduation, and I had no intention of standing in her way.

So I took up a part time job, working evenings after she’d return home from school. I spent my days with my baby, precious, shining, gorgeous Annabelle. I’d never been good with children, yet there I was everyday, trusted by friends and family, to take care of this wide-eyed bundle of joy. And in Annabelle’s eyes, I could do no wrong. I was her Daddy, and though she always seemed to light up extra bright when Kimberly came home, she adored and trusted me in only ways a baby girl can.

Everyone says Annabelle was lucky to be so young when Kimberly died, only a few months old, but I could see in her eyes that she understood her mother wasn’t coming home again. The day half of my heart vanished, I noticed the tiny, sparkling shine in my daughter’s eyes disappear; it was as if her innocence had floated away with her mother’s last breath.

I remember that day…I woke up to shrill screaming. When I glanced around I noticed it was sounding through the baby monitor, the red lines bright as my wife’s shrieks rang through the speaker. I’d flung myself off the bed, taking sheets and blankets with me in my mad dash down the hall. My first thought was that something had happened to Annabelle.

When I reached the yellow nursery I found my wife on her knees in front of the crib, her arms wrapped around her abdomen. My eyes had darted to the crib, to my angel’s small body. She had been lying contently on her back, her chubby fists beating at the air, as if she were scolding Kimberly for waking her up. Annabelle had been completely unharmed.

I’d dropped to the ground in front of Kimberly; I’m sure my eyes had been full of confusion as she glanced up at me. She’d been shaking. So violently, in fact, that even my hands on her shoulders hadn’t been enough to steady her. She whimpered as she leaned into my chest. I can still remember the fear that coursed through my veins.

“Kimberly, what’s wrong baby? Talk to me,” I said, stroking her dark hair soothingly. I could tell she was trying to force words out, but she choked on them instead, and a few moments later she’d passed out in my arms. I’d shaken her harshly, tapped her cheeks with the back of my hand, but she wouldn’t open her eyes again. I scooped her up gently in my arms and ran for the bedroom. It was still cold outside, snow and slush covering the ground, so I ran her to the bedroom and wrapped her in one of the blankets I’d torn from the bed. It was then that I noticed how red the insides of her legs were.

I’d called our neighbour on the way out of the building, asking her to go into our apartment and feed and dress Annabelle for me. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I was rushing Kimberly to the hospital.

Two hours later, in the dull waiting room, a doctor walked in and shook my hand. “The truth is,” he began, and I had known nothing good was going to come of that conversation. “The truth is, we don’t know exactly what happened to Kimberly. We thought maybe it had been birth complications…but those would have shown up sooner than now. We didn’t know what to fix. I’m sorry Collan. Kimberly has passed on.”

Passed on. The way he said it made it seem like Kimberly was only traveling, and I had been but a brief stop on the way to her destination. I hadn’t heard another word he said after that. I’d simply nodded along with everything he said when I thought I had to answer, and before I knew it I was being led into the room where they’d taken Kimberly. “To say your goodbyes,” the doctor had said, before he shut the door and left me there with my pale wife.

I’d broken down, lying across my wife’s lifeless body as if I could have protected her. It was half an hour before someone came to pull me off of her, and the person that had was my mother-in-law. Her husband, son and daughter had been standing in the doorway, staring at Kimberly’s lifeless face. Kimberly’s mother had led us all out of her daughter’s room, her arm around my shoulder as best as she could manage. Out in the waiting room I can remember her parents telling me that I didn’t have to worry about anything, that they would take care of funeral costs and the like. I had only been able to nod numbly in response.

My brother-in-law had driven me home that morning, leaving my car at the hospital to be picked up later on. I’d stumbled my way up to the apartment. My neighbour placed a screaming Annabelle into my arms and told me that she’d been hysterical all morning. I’d muttered my thanks for her help and closed the door behind her. She hadn’t asked where Kimberly was; the hospital had called all emergency contacts for me.

Annabelle had refused to stop crying even for me, and I’d sank to the ground in the hallway, clutched my daughter tightly to my chest as I sobbed into her soft clothing.

Even now I find myself crying unexpectedly at times, the memories of that day imprinted on my mind. The doctors didn’t know what had caused it in the first place, but essentially Kimberly had bled out. The only thing that mattered to me was that I hadn’t been able to protect her. Her pained scream that morning still rings in my ears sometimes, chilling me to the bone. And I miss her so much more.

The four years following my wife’s death played out too quickly for me. I watched as my lovely girl, my Annabelle, grew, learning how to walk and talk so fast that I was afraid to blink and find that she was running off to college. As she’d gotten older she began to look more and more like her mother, all chocolate brown hair and large, bright brown eyes. What I was most proud of was her infectious smile, a perfect mirror image of my own.

The day that little girl was ripped from me was more than I could bear. I can’t even remember exactly what went wrong. All I can see now is her hand clutched tightly in mine as we crossed the road, a road that had been perfectly empty, and the bright lights of the red truck that came barreling around the corner straight for us. I can remember waking up in the hospital a few days later, my head bandaged and my arm in a cast and sling. Everything had been so white, blinding almost, and my head had been spinning uncomfortably from the drugs the nurses had pumped into me. Annabelle was the only thing on my mind.

After a great deal of debating with the doctor I was finally told what had happened. The driver had been drunk, and had just left the pub around the corner before he came upon my daughter and I. The doctor said I must have gotten out of the way faster than I could pull my daughter back, which explained why I wasn’t dead. With help from a nurse, the doctor had propped me up in bed and walked across the room. Curtains were drawn around another bed. When he’d pulled them back my eyes fell on Annabelle’s still body. She’d been hooked up to so many machines. I’d choked back a sob and clambered off the bed, heading straight for my daughter.

I’d had to stay in the hospital for a few more days for observation, but the doctors hadn’t known how much longer Annabelle would be there for. It turned out that it didn’t matter, because by the next afternoon, when I came out of my drug induced slumber, the doctor told me that Annabelle was dead.

Like I said, there is no orphanage for a parent that has lost everything. Had it not been for the angel that walked into my life just months after my daughter’s passing, I wouldn’t be here today either. I’ve lost both the loves of my life, a beautiful wife and a gorgeous daughter, and moving on day to day is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to face.