A Letter to My Daughter

Dear Ariella,

It’s been three months since you left this world. Three months filled with anguish, heartache and despair. Three months since I saw your beautiful face and felt your skin against mine. Three months of quiet, of emptiness, of looking for signs everywhere. Three months of trying to get through the days without you. I’m not sure why I feel the need to mark the passage of each month but it seems significant to me somehow. I’m three months further away from you but I am also three months closer to you.

If you look around our house, most things look the same though there are some changes. One day, shortly after you died I was sitting in the dining room and looked over to your play area. All I could see were all your unfinished projects and craft supplies just waiting to be used. All the evidence that a preteen girl lived here. I couldn’t stand looking at it. Looking at the games and crafts and puzzles that would never be used. I immediately went through the shelves, keeping anything meaningful, tossing anything opened, and donating anything brand new. It looks different back there now. Organized, clean. I miss your clutter, your mess so very much.

Your room, your beautiful new room that you never got to see, that we were going to surprise you with after you came home from the hospital still looks lived in. It was actually neat and organized because we had it painted and then I organized your shelves and all your make up. I was so proud of it, I couldn’t wait for you to see it. Your closet, though was still a disaster. I hadn’t gotten around to straightening that up. So again, one day I was in your room and I couldn’t stand seeing all the clothes you would never wear again so I cleared out your closet and drawers. I kept your t-shirts, had them made into a blanket and I kept your costume from “Brave” and your solo because they both meant so much to you and to us. What a gift it was that you were able to perform prior to going into the hospital. Who knew that would have been the last time? I kept other little things that were important to you as well but I did part with quite a bit. Most of it wasn’t meaningful, or sentimental and it hurt too much to have them there, unworn, unused. Your bed is made with your special dolls and stuffed animals, your iPad and wallet are sitting on your desk, the books you didn’t get to finish are on your end table, and there are some trinkets on your shelves. Things that you picked out to decorate your new room. It looks like any minute a young girl will enter and hang out in there. But only Sherman uses your room now. I always wonder if he senses you there. He didn’t know you but he spends a lot of time in your room and leaves his toys there.

There are some things I just can’t part with or put away. Your Love Your Melon beanies. Initially I thought I would give them to your friends but I just can’t. They were so you. You always had a beanie on. You turned your friends onto them. You rocked those beanies like no one else. I held onto your Uggs and black Converse. You were no fashionista but you loved those boots and shoes and they certainly suited your style. I love the image of you in the pink fancy Bat Mitzvah dress with your black Converse. Only you kiddo. You definitely had your own style and you never worried what anyone else thought. The purple cup you won playing Bingo is sitting by our sink, never used. You were looking forward to drinking your first big glass of water out of that cup. You never got the chance. Your dance jacket and book bag are still hanging by the front door. Your Hall of Fame award/invite to the National dance team is still hanging on our fridge. You were so proud to win that. The first year you got to perform a solo and you did so well, earning several awards. How you were hoping to be able to go to the Nationals this past June. I thought it was a long shot but a slight chance. Who could have known? We were so optimistic that you would be out of the hospital in 6 weeks and ready to start living life again soon after. This outcome never crossed our minds.

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You’re still here, present in every way but the way that we want. Your artwork is still hanging on the walls, your picture is everywhere, and all the pottery you painted is still on display. You always will be a part of this home, a part of our family and our house will always reflect that. We will never erase you from our home. Sometimes it’s painful to see the pictures of you but mostly they bring me comfort. Evidence that you were happy, that you had a mostly good life, that you existed. You forever changed our lives when you were born and forever changed them again when you died.

I am a better person for having been your mom. You taught me so much about strength, about courage, about resiliency. You taught me about what really matters in life; kindness, generosity, family, compassion. Of course I knew that but you exhibited those traits even when it seemed impossible. Things we take for granted were no longer taken for granted after you were diagnosed. And so much of that was because of you. Because of how you responded, how you lived your life in the face of fighting a horrible disease. You cared more about others than yourself and wanted to help anyone you could. You didn’t focus on what cancer was taking from you or doing to you. You focused on how to live your best life given horrible circumstances. You continued to go to the dance studio. You had sleepovers with your friends. You went to school even during chemo weeks. You did not let cancer stop you from living. You were the epitome of strength and are my inspiration for getting out of bed each day, trying to go on living even when I want nothing more than to go to sleep and never wake up.

Words cannot begin to describe how much I miss you or the deep longing I have for you. My arms ache to hold you, to wrap you in a big bear hug. My heart aches to hear you say “I love you, Mommy”. I would move heaven and earth, take a bullet, do anything in the world to have you back here with me. Forever without you is such a long time. It’s a life sentence. One that none of us deserved. Trapped in this prison of anguish and despair. You completed our family and nothing can fill that hole that was ripped out of my chest when you died. You are irreplaceable. You made this world a better place and the world is not as bright without you in it. Your work here was not done. You had so much more love to give. So much compassion and generosity and kindness to share. And of course your work with Ari’s Bears had only just begun. I am so angry that you did not get to live to reach your full potential. You had your whole life ahead of you. You had plans. You will never got to go to college and be on the college dance team. You will never get to achieve your dream of being a nurse (or physical therapist). You will never get to get married and have the 5 children you wanted. You will never get to get the tattoos you wanted or carry out the pranks you had planned. And you will never get to see your legacy, Ari’s Bears grow the way you wanted it to. It pains me that you will never get to see the true impact of your foundation, your passion, the amazing organization that you started. The truth is, that after you had been diagnosed anytime I heard you talk about what you wanted to be or do when you grew up I cringed. I was so scared that you would not live to realize your dreams.

I am so sorry for everything you endured. All the pain, sickness, fear, and anxiety. All the times you were poked and prodded, all the surgeries you suffered through, all of the procedures and scans and toxic treatments. We put you through that because we were so sure you would survive this, that it would be a shitty year (or two when you relapsed) but what’s a year or two when compared to being able to live a full life? I remember how disappointed you were when you learned you would have to miss yet another competition season. But we reminded you that you were missing one season to be able to have many more. I am so sorry that we were wrong about that. I am so sorry that the treatment we pursued, that we were so optimistic about killed you. I am so sorry that I couldn’t physically comfort you during your time in the ICU or alleviate your fears. I am so sorry that you spent the last three months of your life in the hospital, away from your cat and your friends and your beautiful new room with the comfort of your own bed. I am so sorry I couldn’t protect you and save you, like a mother is supposed to do. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

I will never stop loving you. You will always be present in my life. If I was given a do-over, reliving my life but without you, without ever knowing you but without the pain of losing you, I wouldn’t take it. Because as soul crushing as this pain is, it would be even worse to never have known you, to never have been your mom. You gave me my most important, my most meaningful role. You loved and received love unconditionally. You were always unapologetically yourself and you pushed me out of my comfort zones. You were the complete opposite of me; outgoing, a leader among friends, social, and I followed your lead. I loved seeing the world through your eyes and I continue to try to do so, though it’s so incredibly difficult. I know that you would focus on the good, would try to be happy, would try to find joy and that you would want the same for me. I’m not there yet. Please be patient with me. I just cannot find the joy and peace in a world where the most important person to me is noticeably absent. It’s not just knowing you aren’t here. It’s painfully obvious that you aren’t here, that you’re never coming back, in everything I do, everywhere I go, every routine, every thought. Your absence and all that we will miss pervades my thoughts and makes it hard to have fun or find meaning in this new life. The only thing that gives me some measure of comfort is that you no longer have to worry about cancer. You no longer have to spend time in the hospital, taking medicine that makes you sick, being worried about scans. I on the other hand would take back all the anxiety and fear if it meant you were still here with us. I can only hope that you are with Pop-Pop and Great Grandma and all the cancer angels who went before and after you. I hope you are dancing up a storm, making up silly songs, and pranking everyone you meet. And I hope you are watching over us. Because I need you. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that the one person that can help me survive this nightmare is the one person who can’t? But I will always continue to look for signs, because that may be the way you are helping me through, letting me know you are still here, and that one day we will be together again. I love you to the moon and back times infinity.

Until we meet again,

Love,
Mommy