Today: A Year Without Ann

Late last night I stayed up past midnight, expecting the arrival of the 13th. Not an ordinary Friday the 13th. Today marks the one year anniversary that Ann parted. It stung seeing the date change in every possible way. The wound is still fresh, the memories of her last days have seem to haunt me. I can recall every single bit of it.

Now I've awoken to the rain. As if mother nature is feeling my pain, and she's crying with me today. I can nearly grasp the thought that it's been a whole year without Ann. Approximately at 11:13am this morning, it will be an official year that Ann has been gone. It feels just like yesterday. 

What has one year without Ann been like? It has been a routine of daily visits to the cemetery. There is not a day that I don't go. Some days are still tougher than others. I try to really think of all the great times I had with her, but they seem to escape my mind for some reason and I just go back to those last 5 days she was in the hospital. 

I felt like a coward during her last days. Like I had given up on her. The night when she began to have seizures at home, I frantically called her father and told him I was scared and I couldn't do it anymore. That is one thing that I will regret for the rest of my life. I was too scared to be there with her. I thought I was stronger than anything, but I crumbled. Her dad spent the last days with her near her bed side at the hospital, as I sat in a waiting room near her room. I couldn't see her in a state of coma, sleeping, and barely breathing. The day before she passed away, I sat by her bedside while her dad went home to shower and change. I sat there and cried. I told her that if she had to go, it was ok. Mommy would be ok. That mommy didn't want to see her like this anymore. I had to assure her, that it was ok to go and stop the suffering. Those were the most painful things I told her. 

The last day I arrived at the hospital early in the morning, her breathing was really shallow. Listening how she would hardly take a breath was an indication to me, that the inevitable was upon us. I was afraid more than anything at that point. 

I think the last words she mumbled were I love you. Sometimes loved ones take a last breath and say something before they go. I believe Ann did. As she mumbled those words, I walked out of the room to get her nurse, and tell her that she kinda mumbled something. She went into the room and I stayed right outside, and all I can hear is crying sobbing from my mother, my brother and her dad saying that she was gone. Next thing you know the doctor and a few other nurses came in and checked on her, all while I was outside her room. The doctor came out a couple of minutes later and expressed his sympathy. This was it. She was gone. I had lost my only child, my precious child Ann. A year ago, and I can still recollect every vivid detail. 

Most of the time I ask myself, why her. Why not me. She was full of life. A bright and smart child. Everything a parent would want in a child. Why her? 

It's like I have a record player in my head, and that vinyl is on repeat, replaying the same track over and over again. I guess I have yet to get some closure. This wound is still fresh and open. 

A year without Ann has been endless amount of tears still. I think the day I will probably get some closure will be the day we actually find out what causes that malignant tumor. There is no cure for brainstem glioma. Life expectancy after a diagnose is usually between 12-18 months.

My dearest Ann, thank you for being a fighter all the way to the end. Another day is going by, till we meet again. One whole year without you has been an eternity. I miss you and I love you so much.