Editorial Comment: I wrote about this on Julie's site, and decided to include it here as a way of helping people who stumble on to my blog understand my feelings of complete reverence and appreciation.
I know Scrooge McDuck
would find it hard to believe that people out there in the real world
do things like this, but I have truly been handed good fortune - this
(and, well, $2.02 from adsense help from my site) will go a very long
way towards making my dream a possibility.
The beauty of this quilt is matched by the spirit of kindness I have witnessed here. I'm at the end of my IF road, and yet have never felt so much warmth and friendship holding me up as I take these final steps.
Nothing (well, other than my own "damn baby") will make me happier
than to have a picture of Julie weeping with this quilt before she
sends it off, and of the LUCKY recipient's smile after opening it.
My greatest hope is that a picture or two of this quilt will one day find its way down to your
Quilts for Other People's Kids filed under "A quilt for the child of Boulder's heart." Because, someday, if I'm lucky, I'll be telling this story at bedtime about how friends got together to make it possible for my family to have a dearly dreamed for child.
Thank you to all of you,
with LOVE from Boulder and husband.
PS - Don't forget to click a link on Julie's "Dept of Commerce" sidebar - won't hurt, might help. All proceeds this month (02/2006) go to RESOLVE. Thank you.
I never thought I'd live to realize that it has been two years since our baby girl died (in utero, a second trimester loss - for those that do not know).
I thought, at one point, it would be easier to stop living. Then I spent the next 10 months trying to recover from complications resulting from her loss, and that shifted my focus slightly, and I survived one day at a time.
I guess it is true what people say, it isn't that you get better, or heal, or that the pain lessens - you simply learn a little each day of how to cope with the knowledge that someone that you love is not with you.
That, and some day I'd like to meet her sister or brother....
you are forever in our hearts and souls. Life will not be the same
without you here. The joy you gave to us each and every day will be
what sustains us in this new darkness. Our memories are vast and
sweet, filled with wonder and smiles. Your were a beautiful girl to behold, and your intelligence was legendary. Thank you for our too short time
I have not had a good week. My best friend is dying.
Some of you will not understand, because you don't have a friend like I do. You see, when it comes to people, I almost universally like animals more. My husband has always wanted me to pursue a degree in medicine - either for people or animals. The thing is, I'd always rather spend the day with animals than people, but I could watch a person die and go home and recover. But an animal? I'd be lost for a long time.
G* (sorry, cannot spell out her name, as it is a give away to people in my real life - damn Google), is a special angel who came into my life and heart at Christmas time of 1997, only a few short weeks after I'd lost her guardian angel, C*. C* saved my head and heart while in a deep, dark depression. She kept me wanting to wake up and engage in a day. C* was my litmus test for men. My husband was the only man that she allowed into my home (and heart) without protest. When C* died, I wanted to die.
Then one day, my parents called and said they'd found a new love for my life, G*. I had the fist pick of the litter, and when I made the long drive to Wyoming to get her, I was anxious and giddy - just like a kid before Christmas. An entire pack of puppies came out to greet me, and G* raced right up to me and made my choice for me. We were locked at the heart in that very instance. The other sweet pups, didn't even have a chance. I'd done all kinds of reading about how to select the best pup from the group, and none it ever was tested out. My parents still laugh about that. I went home, and then to the airport and flew with G* in my lap, against all airline policies, but she was screaming at the top of her lungs, and the flight attendants finally relented - and achieved peace with her. We arrived home for her to meet my husband on Christmas eve. Life has been richer ever since. With each surgery, and IVF treatment, and loss of baby after baby, G* and, to be fair, her sister S* were the reason I lived. The reason I smiled through tears. The reason I could see my husband leave for another business trip. My best friends and my complete saviors.
Sometime ago, G* contracted valley fever, a miserable disease, and has been on meds for it on and off for years. She loses a significant amount of weight and then the meds kick in and she rebounds.
Only this time she hasn't. We spent Friday at the vet's office, and then at the specialist's (internal medicine) clinic, and got the call that her x-rays were terribly bad. She either has metastatic cancer that has spread to her lungs or the valley fever (or other fungus from the mid-west stint we did along the way) has spread to her lungs.
Either way, we've been told it is terminal. We had horrid decisions to make on Friday, and we almost let her go, but then my husband's heart broke and he wasn't ready to say good-bye. And neither was I. So, we brought her home to spend time with us and her sister (different litter) and buddy for life, S*. It has been a weekend full of tears, and sadness. A weekend full of love and tenderness. A weekend of remembrances and reliving of stories from the past.
She is a sliver of her regular self. 1/3 of her body weight lost to either disease (or both, for that matter). The last vet from the clinic - not the specialist without bed side manner (how is that even possible, by the way? - has said she is not in pain, that it is a matter of her breathing being labored. She is terrifyingly week. But she is still drinking water and eating in small amounts anything her heart desires, so the vet did not think it wrong for us to take her back with us.
Sometime today (Monday) we will hear which it is. Cancer is not treatable, and the fungal infection is so pervasive, that extending her treatment would probably kill her. We have no choices left, and we are heart broken. So, we will at least know what it is that has harmed her. And that may bring some peace. We will keep her with us, until we know that it is no longer kind or humane, and hope that her life ends peacefully with her loved ones with her. And for my beloved G*, and friend who always had a smile, I hope that our new place, which we get the keys to today, will offer her at least one last smile like this: