I talked to my daughter last night.
Somewhere around 5:45 a.m., I woke up with the physical pain that comes with the monthly reminder that I’m no longer pregnant. I got up, took some ibuprofen, and crawled back into bed to await the return of sleep.
Somewhere in the void between wakefulness and sleep, I saw a young girl, about ten years old. She was bald.
She gave a bright “hi” and introduced herself. I realized she was the girl I’d gone to bed thinking about—a little girl, just over a year old in real life, who passed away from cancer last week.
She smiled at me, and she said, “I’m with Eleanora.”
She turned a bit to the side and held her arm out, hand extended to show me where to look. There sat my daughter, eyes wide open—ALIVE—and smiling. She was sitting on a creek bank, kicking her feet in the water like I’d always envisioned her doing.
I walked over to her and sat down. We sat in silence for a few minutes, her watching the water and me watching her.
I picked her up and put her onto my lap, the same way I’d always envisioned myself doing.
I wrapped my arms tightly around her and put my chin on top of her full head of curls. She felt exactly the way she did in the hospital, 7 pounds, 1.5 ounces. It felt so good to hold her again, to have her close to my chest and to feel her breathing. I remember feeling so relieved.
Then, in the midst of silence, she said to me (in a voice that sounded just like mine but a little higher-pitched), “I can’t wait for you to meet my sisters, Mama.”
Sisters. Plural.
I told Daniel a few days ago that I’d had this nagging thought in my brain all day long that Eleanora had been telling me that exact same thing. “I can’t wait for you to meet my sisters.”
I asked her, “Are you sure, baby girl?” I didn’t want to scare her. What I really wanted to ask her was, “Am I going to have to go through this again? I’m terrified, Eleanora. Are you sure I will give you siblings who get to come home with us?”
I think she knew anyway.
She looked me straight in the eyes—with these giant brown eyes I never got to see open this side of Heaven—and said, “Yes.”
I took a deep breath, thinking, I hope, I hope, I hope you’re right. It warmed my heart to think that she could already know this—that she could already know them.
I pulled her tight and said to her, “Do you know how much it hurts to not have you here?” I remember never wanting to let her go.
She turned to face the water again, and she said, plain as day, “I know, Mama. But I had to come here so that I could help others.”
I remember that I looked at her, incredulous. Why would she need to go to Heaven to help others? And how is that at all fair of God to do to Daniel and me? If what I’ve always heard about Heaven is true, no one there needs help. Everything is okay there. Everything is good there. Everything is hell on Earth here without her.
Then I realized—she didn’t mean there.
She meant here.
“I had to come here so that I could help others.”
After that, I drifted off into a deep sleep, and I didn’t see her again. I like to imagine that she’s still sitting there, playing by the water, waiting for another visit.
I hope that she is happy there. I hope she’s right about her sisters. I hope it’s true that our suffering and our tears and the longing we’ll feel for the rest of our days aren’t without purpose.
If you are the others, I hope that my daughter’s hand reaches out to you and gives you peace. I hope that our story brings you hope somehow. I hope you know that there is someone in Heaven always looking after you.
