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Dear Emma,
I remember when you were born.
Eight pounds eleven ounces; you were perfection personified. You
had such delicate black curls and bright blue eyes; you looked like
a porcelain doll when you slept with your lips all puckered up. I
had wanted you, my beautiful baby girl, for as long as I can
remember. You were just as I dreamed you would be. A beautiful
baby girl I could dress in pink and play dolls with, I thought we’d
be the best of friends. However, you and your daddy had other
plans. You had him wrapped around your dainty little pinky from the
moment you took your first breath. I laughed and laughed as I saw
him melt, when you sighed in contentment in his arms. You were by
no means a small baby, but when he held you, you looked so tiny and
frail I think it almost scared him.
When I married your father, we
decided to start trying immediately for children. Our plans
included a houseful of children. This was not to be. Seven years
later, your brother was born. We were so thrilled. Having almost
given up hope, we’d been considering adoption when I realized I was
late by nearly two months. Seven and a half months later the nurses
handed over this handsome stout little boy who was destined to be
your protector and proudly your scapegoat. When your daddy and I
brought you home from the hospital and he met you for the first
time, all he could do was stare at you. I still laugh remembering
how he doted on you. I say you were your father’s baby girl, but
you were even more so your brothers baby sister. All he would have
to do was say ‘Hi Emmy!’ and you would giggle like mad. Your black
curls gave way to chocolate brown locks that matched Jonathan’s hair
precisely. It was obvious you two were related.
I remember your first steps. You were nearly a year old and had
been crawling like mad for months. You wanted nothing to do with
this two legged business – you were perfectly content to crawl. It
was your brother bribing you with cookies that got you to take your
first steps. He’d had you stand against the couch and would keep
holding cookies just out of reach. Oh, the indignation in your
voice as you squawked your outrage was hilarious. You’d a sweet
tooth from the start, my baby girl. That, you got from me.
When you were two we got your ears
pierced. I was against it as I hated to see my babies cry, however
I was once again outvoted. The tiny pink studs did look precious in
your pretty little ears. Your daddy picked them out and I’m
thankful we didn’t ask your opinion. You were such a tomboy at that
age, if a two year old can be a tomboy. You hated dresses and even
at that age expressed your intense dislike of pink. You wanted
blues and greens and toy trucks. All you wanted out of life was to
play with Jonathan. I didn’t know what I would do when he started
kindergarten and you’d be left at home.
You were such a little
troublemaker. Your daddy and I would have to struggle to not laugh
in front of you. We couldn’t let you know we thought your antics
comical. That would just encourage you more. When you were nearly
four, you decided it was time for a haircut. Your long dark curls
were found on the floor in jagged chunks. I decided it was time for
your first ‘professional’ haircut. You enjoyed the sucker the
stylist gave you. It was shortly after this you decided to test the
effects of gravity with your makeshift parachute. I’m still
thankful you had enough sense to start with low heights and only
sprained your wrist. You learned that day that gravity is very
effective and towels are poor substitutes for parachutes.
I remember when you were five;
you’d been hit with a soccer ball at school and your nose refused to
stop bleeding. The school nurse called me to come pick you up as
she couldn’t get you to calm down. All you would say was ‘It
hurts!’. I’d never been so scared. The unstoppable nosebleed was
just the first. Your poor daddy was of no use; he basically ignored
it all and brought you games to distract you. He just didn’t know
how to handle his princess being ill. I had no idea how to explain
to you what was happening, nor did I know how to console your
brother, who was old enough to comprehend the dangers involved. The
doctors performed a few tests to identify exactly what was wrong.
You were so strong and brave honey, especially during the bone
marrow aspiration test. We celebrated your bravery later and your
brother brought you a small stuffed white kitten. We were all
tested to see if any of us were a match and your big brother was the
closest. Twice we let him donate marrow. Twice we held him while
he sobbed in pain, and twice we watched you grow healthier…just to
grow even weaker.
We buried you yesterday, my
beautiful baby girl. The coffin was so tiny and the funeral
director kept suggesting this gaudy pink thing. It was so
inappropriate, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I think it was the
shock, but I could just see your face at the mention of ‘pink’. We
went with a soft golden oak one with a tree design that had a tire
swing on it. Dear Lord, that hurt so much. I’ve never before cried
that hard in my life and to watch your daddy just stand there. He
still hasn’t cried and really hasn’t spoken. He kept telling you,
you’d be fine as a newborn kitten in no time. You would laugh and
hug the snow white stuffed kitten tight against your thin chest. I
think he’d convinced himself nothing could hurt you as long as he
was there. How God can grant someone who’d waited for so long, a
beautiful healthy child, just to take her away a few short years
later I’ll never know. Thank you Emma Marie Jenson, for being my
daughter. I’ll forever be grateful to God for granting us what
little time we did have, before he called you home.
Love you forever,
Mommy.
You
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