Lyvi calls it a bandaid. She tried to take it off me a few times, but she seems to have forgotten about it now. I guess, in a way, it is a bandaid. I can't seem to take it off. I don't know why. Maybe, because if it is still on me then she can't have been gone for that long. The frayed edges and the faded letters tell a different story. It was 2 weeks ago almost exactly that she started getting uncomfortable. It has been 2 weeks since my baby smiled. It has been 2 weeks since I played with my baby. It has been 2 weeks. It has been 2 weeks. How has it been 2 weeks.
I twisted the bracelet around and around my wrist while I sat in the hallway outside the room where they were trying everything they could to bring my baby back. I stared at it so that I didn't see the panicked looks of the nurses and doctors that were flooding in and out of that room. I twisted the bracelet around my wrist while I sat in a helicopter, staring out the window at the valley, while trying not to see the reflection of my lifeless daughter getting chest compressions. I twisted it around my wrist while I sat in a chair next to a kind social worker at Primary Children's, while she asked me questions to try to take my mind off of what was happening. I twisted it around my wrist when the doctor came out of the room Violet was in and told me they had to stop, that it was cruel to keep going. That her heart was still, Asystole. She kept saying that word to me. I twisted it around my wrist while nurses and doctors came out of the room and started taking all their gowns, gloves, and masks off, signaling that they had stopped. I twisted it around my wrist while I waited for them to clean her up, so that I could hold her one last time.
I don't twist it anymore. I hardly notice that it's there. But, I know I would notice if it wasn't there. I don't know when I will take it off. It's made of some sort of paper, so I know it won't last forever. I will, eventually, have to take it off. It's almost like, in my foggy grief stricken mind, if I take it off I am accepting that she is gone. I can never accept it. Ever. I will never accept that my sweet, beautiful, perfect baby died. 20 hours after she got sick, she died. I will never accept that.
I love you sweetie pie honey buns. I am so sorry this happened to you. I wish I knew how you caught it so that I could change it. I would do anything to change it. I would trade places with you if I could. I miss you.