It still fits

It was one of the first days of school and I was walking my youngest to her class. I had reached down to take her hand, and she pulled it away from me, telling me that she was too big now, to be holding her mommy's hand. She being the last of 5, I was saddened to get to that stage of motherhood where I no longer had a little hand to hold, and I didn't want to give it up. So I simply said to her, "But your hand fits!" I went on to tell her that her brother, and her sisters hands had all gotten too big, and didn't fit the same in mine like her hand did. I just said hers fit perfect, as I gave it a little squeeze. I remember her sweet little smile, as she looked up at me, feeling so proud that she had something the rest didn't, and held my hand into the school. I was so relieved when she continued to hold my hand.
A lot has happened, and a lot has changed since then. I now work at the school I walked my little girl into those 3 years ago. And life has not slowed any. Last week, at the end of the day, I was walking with my girls to my car with an armful of things from my room. Savanah tried to hold onto my hand, and I tried to brush it away kindly, not wanting to drop anything. "But it still fits mom", she said to me. I stopped walking and looked down at her. Since that day, so many years ago, neither she nor I have ever talked about her hand fitting. She just let me take it when I wanted,and I let her take mine. She wasn't hurt by what I had said, but the look in her eyes told me this was important. I shifted my things, and very happily took her hand in mine, so glad it still fit.
Since that day I have kept reliving a moment from the hospital with Brittany. By this time, she was in her coma, and we were in Primary Children's Hospital. She had had dozens of blood draws, and tests done. She had a "bolt" protruding out of the right side of her head. She had tubes going everywhere, along her arms, down her throat. It was such a tangle of life sustaining drugs, that in the end would not be enough. But her left hand was free. It wasn't hooked up to anything, it just lay across her body, so peacefully. I lay next to her for several hours as time sped by all too quickly. Those beds are tiny, and there wasn't much room for me, as I lay on my side, not wanting to disturb anything. During those hours, I held her hand as much as I could. I knew there would never be a chance to do it again. Even as I stood next to her bed, when visitors were there, I always wanted her hand in mine. It felt so warm, and soft. It felt alive. I kept waiting and waiting for her to squeeze it one more time. That time never came.
A few months ago, John had the day off, and as I was working, he had sent me a text, telling me we had just received a package from Primary Children's, and was wondering if I knew what it was. I had no idea! So many thoughts and fears hit me full force. What could it possibly be? It had been nearly a year since Brittany had died, and all the bills had been paid off. It was a mold the nurses had made of Brittany's hand. It's only the palm of her hand, with her fingers slightly curled, but it is wonderful. I can lay my fingers in between hers. Although it is made of plaster, I swear I can almost feel her soft skin again. The first time I did this, I realized that my children will ALWAYS be my babies. I realized that my children's hands will always fit, no matter how old they get.

Just memories now

One thing I love about Brittany, is how truly unique she really is. I say "love" and "is" because I still do, and I have no doubt she still is. Someone like her can never be duplicated. She has a way of being clumsy yet graceful, funny and genuine, timid at times yet full of spunk, fiercely loyal but cautious. She was struggled academically, but was one of the most brilliant people I will ever know. She has a wisdom about her way beyond the years she lived. Life hit her hard, and continued to hit her almost until she was beaten down completely. In the midst of all her hurt and difficulty she an optimism and the kind of positive outlook that would be envied by most who would hear what she had to say. She was creative, and inspiring, funny and sensitive. There are no other words for me to say, than to say she was simply amazing.

With Brittany being my oldest daughter, it was always her that I would envision the first prom dress shopping with, the first late night conversations as she would come home from dates with an enormous smile on her lips, the engagement ring that would sparkle on her thin delicate finger. It was always her that I would first dream of feeling the first movements of life, as she would start to swell with her first child. I would mentally store up motherly advice of how to deal with late night fevers and ongoing earaches. I would tuck away recipes to share, cleaning tricks to teach, and the best words of love and advice I could think of to help her along the road of being a wife and raising children in a difficult world.

We've all heard stories of mothers or fathers who find out they have an illness that will take them from this life and leave small children who will never fully know them. We've heard stories of them recording themselves with hours and hours of insight and personal feeling that they want their children to somehow know, even when they will have been gone for years. I've wondered myself what I would say. With all these ideas in my head, I never once thought of what I would do or say if it was my child leaving this life instead of me. As I lay next to Brittany, in her last few hours, one of the most disturbing aspects of it all, was my lack of words. I didn't know what to say. I didn't have any words of advice to tell her, because there was no future time for her to use them. I had no stories to tell her, because there would be no time for her to recall them. All I had to offer her were my last words of love. I whispered to her, over and over, of how proud of her I was, and how much I do, and always will love her. Suddenly all my plans and words for her, as she progressed through life were empty.

Last night I sat with my family, all curled up on couches and under blankets, as we watched old family videos. I laughed at the silly things Jordan would do, the creative stories Kaitlyn would tell, and watched Brittany be Brittany. As I watched, and as I soaked in every image, I made a realization I had never had before. I missed Brittany. I didn't just miss by 14 year old Brittany, I missed my 10 year old Brittany, my 5 year old Brittany, and my 2 year old Brittany... I missed the whole life that Brittany left. I have had lots of times that I miss my children at younger ages, that is nothing new. But in the back of my mind there was always a comfort of knowing that I can see my babies again through watching their own children grow up. There will (hopefully) be a little Jordan someday throwing rocks into the lake, there will be a little Kaitlyn running around the yard with the neighborhood kids, there will hopefully, be little Jennas to smile at me with their big innocent eyes, and there will be little Savanahs with pictures drawn for me to put on the fridge. But there will never be any little Brittanys. There will never be anyone with her laugh, or her sweet stories told in her "Minnie Mouse" voice. There will never be anyone who falls to the ground in a fit of laughter the way she did. There will never be anyone that will be able to mimic any of the the little tenancies she had, to bring me back to those days of watching my little girl grow up.

Watching those videos is painful, but I love them. They let me see my baby girl, and feel her once more, even if they're all just memories now.