I stay away from Facebook memories, especially this time of year. I don’t need them to remind me of how terrible things were. How much sickness and angst and worry and fear we were all going through. February through May are impossible. February is the anniversary of my father’s death. I remember how heartbroken Ariella was. We were on the way to her dance class when my aunt called to share the horrible news. I immediately turned the car around and went home where I told David and we all just held each other. Ariella was so close to her Pop-Pop. He played countless games of Candyland with her (and I don’t think he cheated with her like he did with me so I would win to end the games sooner) and silly games that she made up. He made the same dumb dad jokes he did with me, thrilled to have a new audience to appreciate them. She missed him when he was in Florida and asked to see him all the time when he was in town. She was devastated when he died. She felt guilty because she didn’t respond to his last text message. She frequently read it and did respond after he died, and she would often call his phone to leave a message on his voicemail telling him how much she loved and missed him.
February is the anniversary of Ariella’s diagnosis. I wanted to do something fun for the month of Valentine’s Day. Each morning before she woke up I was going to tape a heart on the door with a trait written on it that Ariella exhibited, such as funny, loving, generous, etc. I didn’t realize that by the 3rd day I would be writing traits such as strong, resilient, fierce, fighter, brave. Because even though we pretty much knew a day or so prior, February 3rd, after a full day of tests and exams, was the day we were told definitively “Ariella has cancer”.
February was the last month Ariella ever danced. It was the last month in 2017 she danced before her treatment started and after she eased back into it, it was the last month in 2019 that she ever danced. Ever.
February is the anniversary of Ariella’s bone marrow transplant, the beginning of the end, though of course we didn’t know that at the time. We were filled with hope, that this was the answer to keep those pesky cancer cells from returning. If only.
If you ask me how I am, I always say “I’m okay”, “hanging in there”, “taking it one day at a time.” I am hanging in and I am taking it day by day or sometimes hour by hour, minute by minutes. But though I may look and seem okay, I am not. I’ve just learned how to fake it, how to cover it up. We’re nearing three years without our girl and it doesn’t get easier, or it hasn’t yet for me. I still beg and plead to be taken early. I don’t feel the need to be here. Not only do I not fear death but I still would welcome it so I can be with Ariella and free from this constant, relentless ache. I still cannot fathom that this is my life. That I had a daughter. That I had a daughter with cancer. That I no longer have a living daughter. It doesn’t feel real and yet it feels all too real. It feels like a lifetime, it feels like a minute. Flashbacks to those days in the hospital, the truly horrible moments, make my heart pound and and my breath quicken, like I am physically there. Like I never left. Thinking about the happy moments make me smile and cry at the same time. Thinking of what we had and what we will never get to experience. What Ariella never got to experience. Thinking of her beautiful flame being extinguished way too soon. That we will never hear her infectious laugh or feel the warmth of her hugs. How could such a lively, exuberant girl be gone? It doesn’t seem possible. When I think of the many years I have ahead of me I feel physically sick. I don’t want to suffer through 40 more years. I don’t want to suffer for another minute. And yet somehow I do. Somehow it’s been 5 years from diagnosis, 3 years from bone marrow transplant and almost 3 years without her extraordinary soul here on Earth. This is not to say I haven’t had my moments of enjoyment and things to look forward to. I have. But they just aren’t enough.