I will never forget the moment my daughter Sophia inhaled her last at 10:35 p.m. I always imagined that I would collapse beside my wife Natalie in a heap of tears and sorrow if I had to observer the death of my child. In its place, though, I felt a sharp and surprising increase in strength and clarity. I didn’t break down. I ceased from screaming.
I closely became more focused because I was the only one who could complete the task at hand and Sophia needed me one last time. I gave the funeral coordinator and nurse a call. I consoled our family and Natalie. I even chopped off a lock of Sophia’s gorgeous, long hair so we would always have a bodily reminder of her.
I carried her down the stairs to the waiting gurney after carefully picking up her weak body when the memorial staff inwards. As always, I made sure she was safe and safe. I followed the van that drove her to the funeral home at around two in the morning.
I stayed with her until I could return the next morning to make the final arrangements. Even though it was one of the most difficult things I have ever done, I knew she needed her father, even in death. We lost Sophia seven months ago. It seems like yesterday in some respects.
For others, it seems to go on forever. I’ve gone to a couple grief therapy sessions, but I haven’t let myself capability the full extent of the loss. I stay away from being weak. I spend all of my time at work, taking care of Natalie and our other kids, and child care.
I still can’t sit with my pain. I’m not sure how to deal with the trauma of seeing my daughter’s death. The holidays and her birthday in October were both more difficult than I had expected. Now, grief follows me around every day, heavy and relentless. I had never truly experienced the pits of sadness, anxiety, or unhappiness until I lost Sophia. I live in that world now.
To stay near her, though, I’ve developed a little ritual that is akin to a silent prayer. I write her name on the vague bath glass with a heart almost every day. It’s easy, but it gives me a sense of stability.
It serves as a cue to myself that she is still with me in some capacity and to honor her spirit. Sometimes it hurts too much to know that I will never be able to hold her, kiss her, or hear her laugh again. I’m really torn.
My self-centered heart hurts to hold her in my arms again, even though I find a strange sense of relief in knowing she’s no longer in pain no more surgeries, no more uncertainty. Another giggle. Additional second. However, those are impossible, and accepting that finality is a necessary part of my grieving process. From the beginning, Sophia was a fighter. She was amazingly bold, and her soul never hesitated. She had complex, demanding, and unpredictable medical needs, but she overcame them with a strength that made us all feel sheepish.
I was able to manage her routines, be strong for her, and provision her through pain that most people never knowledge because of her resolve. As she produced older, the fear of losing her remained in the background. I knew in my heart that she wouldn’t be here for long, but knowing and tolerant are two diverse belongings.
She taught us that the love shared during those days, rather than the amount of days, is what really totals in life. Sophia was bounded by that affection her entire lifespan. I like to think she felt a special bond with me because we fought for her, loved her, and enclosed her with care.
I was the only one who could make her fun, and those snickers in the midst of a tender life were a sole and precious gift. Every day I miss her. No matter where I go, I carry the weight of a loss that can’t be filled. She was my bright, my purpose, and my shelling star; she was more than just my offspring. I will continuously be thankful that I had the accidental to be her father, even though her time with us was much too brief.
