Dear Ariella,
Another milestone birthday. Your Sweet 16. But there is nothing sweet about this 16th birthday. This is your 5th birthday since you died. And these days never get easier. Actually, it’s the days leading up to the milestone days that are so hard for me to get through. They are fraught with anxiety, panic, dread, and sadness. I can feel it physically, in the pit in my stomach, in the way that my heart pounds, in the shallowness of my breaths. These days should be filled with your anticipation and excitement, looking forward to the freedom of being able to drive. I should be worrying about you behind the wheel of a car, not visiting your gravesite. I should be hanging on for dear life annoying you while I press my imaginary break as you drive me around because I know you would be a speed demon. You my fearless child who loved to go fast (except when we needed you to do something, then I never met anyone slower) would probably be terrifying as a driver. I should be showering you with gifts, not decorating your tree at the cemetery. And it saddens me that I don’t know what you would want for your 16th birthday. Well, other than a car. I do know you would have wanted some kind of convertible.
How would we celebrate this big day? Dinner out of course at a favorite place. Would you want steak? Or your favorite taco salad and churros? Or something completely different? But you definitely would do something with your friends. Your friends were your world. What else would we do? It pains me that I just don’t know. I don’t know who you would be anymore and it just keeps getting harder to imagine your life now. I do know that you would still be your sassy, goofy, spunky, kind, smartass, self and I wouldn’t have that any other way.
Your birthdays were always extra special because we celebrated with Pop-Pop, whose birthday is the day after yours. Did I ever tell you that when I was in labor Pop-Pop actually said to hold on until the next day so you would be born on his birthday? He was joking of course (I think). This after you were already 10 days late. You always did do things on your own time, never in a rush. In fact, as mentioned above, I think you are the slowest person I have ever known. Anyway, your last birthday with Pop-Pop was in 2015, though of course we didn’t know that then. Just 4 months later he died and we were definitely missing him on your 9th birthday.
Your 9th birthday was your last normal, birthday. We missed Pop-Pop but unbelievably it was going to get worse. Our world was about to implode. On your last normal birthday you got a phone call from Mickey Mouse (or maybe it was Goofy) telling you that you would be going on a Disney Cruise and trip to Disney in April. That trip never happened. Little did we know that your hurt leg was more than just a dance injury. That it was cancer cells, mutating and growing, about to change our lives forever. Little did we know how much our lives would change. Never could we have imagined that you would live through only 2 more birthdays and that you would be fighting for your life for both of them.
I am glad you got the opportunity to experience what it feels like to fly on your 11th, your last birthday. The freedom, the weightlessness, a few minutes away from the cancer and illness and fear. There is no feeling quite like it. I wish that I could fly, leave this earth, and join you where there is no more sadness, pain, fear, and illness.
What do I want you to know on this milestone day, this 5th birthday without you? I’m actually in a better place now. Here is the post I wrote on your 12th birthday, the first one we had to spend without you: 12th Birthday. I’m sharing it here because it shows my survival. It shows how far I’ve come out of that very dark place I was in (and it’s a nice celebration of all your birthdays). I’m not healed. I never will be healed. And I’m still sad of course. Sadness will always be a part of me. Your absence is ever present and there is never a moment when I’m not thinking about you and missing you. But I’m learning how to carry that pain with me in a way that is no longer oppressive. I’m learning to live again, not merely survive. I know you want me to be happy, that you’re probably relieved that I am finding joy again. But you always understood that it was okay to be sad and scared and worried and it was okay to express those feelings. In fact you often expressed those feelings, and quite loudly I might add. You were never taught to hide them and put on a happy face for the sake of others and you wouldn’t want me to do that either. You would want me to be happy, but in my own time, and for me, not for anyone else. And I am getting there.
That’s not to say that I’m not still hurting. I hurt for me and for Daddy and all your family and friends that miss you greatly. I hurt for all those who never experienced the joy of knowing you. I hurt for you and all that you missed and will continue to miss. You were looking forward to so much that you will never get to experience. And when I think of all those events, not just the big milestones but also the smaller, mundane moments that make a life, I miss you that much more. I’m learning to live with “and” rather than “or”. I can be sad that you are gone and sad for all you went through AND I can experience joyful moments in my life. I can be angry that cancer stole you from us AND I can be grateful for the time we had together. I can cry for our loss AND I can smile and laugh at all the beautiful memories that we had. I’m reminded of these lyrics from the song “Beautiful Anyway” by Judah & The Lion: “That’s what makes this life so wonderfully awesome And horribly awful Yet somehow it’s beautiful anyway”.
Even though I look for signs from you everywhere, I’m still uncertain as to what I believe happens when you die. One thing I am certain of is that if you are still alive in spirit somewhere, you are with Pop-Pop celebrating both birthdays together. I’m sure you’re also with your friends (too many friends there with you now), probably planning some epic pranks. Please don’t forget to throw some signs our way amongst your partying.
I love you kiddo, to the moon and back, infinity times. Words truly cannot capture how I feel without you. Just know that I love you always, will miss you forever, and look forward to the day we can be together again.
Love,
Mommy
Hope pop pop and the steak or churros are all awesome
Your posts always make me cry. I love you and I miss Ariella so much. <3
I can’t imagine your pain because I never was able to carry a child to full term. I am encouraged that you are improving. I used to be a nurse for 38 years until a virus attacked my heart and I nearly died. I became disabled and them my husband got the dreaded sarcoma, two different types and I cared for him for two years until he died.
The first time I read your posts, my heart ached for you. I really feared that you would not survive. My husband ‘s maternal grandmother who lived 101 years and lost both of her children and was widowed at a young age. She took to her bed sometimes but always survived. My husband’s paternal grandparents were never the same after their son died at 54.
A dear friend of mine was killed in a bus accident when I was twelve . I have never forgotten her or her wonderful smile and zest for life. I still remember standing at her casket weeping uncontrollably and my father helpless and unable to calm me down. It was her father who comforted me..
Thank you for sharing your story about the vibrant young girl , Ariella, who was your world. I am glad that we will see those we love again someday. I pray that someday a cure will be found for cancer.
I have always shared your post since the day we found out her condition. People who never met her, loved her, prayed for her and your family! I truly believe in prayers, my son is a cancer survivor, and we were all praying that she would be a survivor as well. Unfortunately something’s don’t turn out the way we hope. I’m so happy to see that you have accomplished so much the last year or so. So happy to see you smiling more, doing more and enjoying life a little more. I know she will always be with you In your heart. I believe in heaven, and she is with your Dad, her friends etc. I know both of them are so proud of you and her Dad! So some prayers have been answered, hope you continue us to enjoy life again.
Reading this broke my heart. I love you Ariella, always and I love your mom and dad who are so brave.
“Grief is a very specific love with nowhere to go” Your love is so profoundly evident in your expression and reflection. I hope that the weightlessness that Ari enjoyed will momentarily drift into your spirit today and that some spark of freedom from unspeakable pain illuminates in a way that connects you directly to your girl. Her birthday is a special celebration of the miracle of life you gave her. YOU gave her life; the world is brighter because she sprinkled and danced and spread her joy.