It has been 13 years since I saw my best friend.   The person that I spent countless days and nights with, laughing, giggling, and doing what typical 10 year old girls do.  That was back when Kitchen Little was cool.  Back when we could play with Barbies.  Back when we tortured our little brothers.  When we were in Girl Scouts together.

13 years and 1 day ago I found out the inevitable was upon us.  Then, 12 years and 364 days ago I lost that best friend. The one person that I really truly trusted and loved. Overcome by a disease that she was born with and had no control over.  Every one of the days in her 10 year life she fought.  Fought for her life, fought against the disease that was consuming her, and fought for her right to have fun.

Cystic Fibrosis took my best friend from me 12 years and 364 days ago.  To this day, the pain is still there.  While most days it is buried in some part of my heart or the other, I am almost unaffected.  There are other days, however, where the pain of losing her hits like it was just yesterday I found out.

My mom told me one day that Becky was extremely sick, in the hospital, and ultimately, wouldn’t be coming home.  As a mother, how do you explain death to a 10 year old child?  How do you, as a 10 year old little girl, grasp the concept of death?  Really, how does anyone grasp the concept of death?  You don’t.  At least I didn’t.  Not at 10.  All that can really be grasped is that soon, that best friend will no longer be able to play with you, laugh with you, or have sleepovers with you.  I cried for a long while on the couch with my mom that night after she told me, because really, that’s all that I could do.

The pain for me as a 10 year old must not be anything compared to that of her mother.  As a mother myself now, I couldn’t imagine what the pain of losing a child is like.  Everything that is associated with death and the arrangements that have to be made is all too much to comprehend.  Plus, this same mourning mother had to explain to her  toddler son why his sister wasn’t coming home.

As of the year 2000, (just 3 years after she passed away) the median predicted age of survival (or life expectancy) for a person with Cystic Fibrosis was 32 years old.  Still very much too young to lose your life.  You see, Cystic Fibrosis has no cure.  It is said that with certain treatments or therapies, and proper nutrition, can lengthen and improve the quality of life for those with CF.  Lung transplants are often an option for CF patients, and while Becky was on the list, she never received her new lungs.

Becky watches over me, my family, and everyone else she ever loved.  She will forever be in my heart, and I find myself sometimes talking to her.  There are times where I wonder what she’d be like today.  In my mind, I imagine she looks the same, though a bit more mature.  Would she have babies of her own?  Would she be married?  Would we still be friends?  She was too good for this world, and was meant to watch over us all from Heaven.

Rest In Peace, my friend.  I love you.

If you want to read another post I wrote for her a few years ago, you may find it here.

Do you ever have those moments when you feel you just aren’t cut out for parent hood?

I mean, I have two kids now.  I have been down the infant road.  This is the second journey, and all of a sudden, doubting myself is kicking in.

All these crazy outlandish things that my daughter has done to hurt herself only happens when I am alone.  With both kids.  After Ariana choked and we had to call 911, I was freaking out thinking that the children’s hospital would call Child Protective Services on me for having objects small enough for her to swallow within her reach.  Thankfully, they didn’t.

Today, everyone is having a nice little nap.  Sleeping peacefully.  Konnor in his bed, Ariana in her crib with me sleeping in my bed next to her.  Two hours worth of golden silence and pleasant dreams only to be ripped apart by a gigantic crash and an infant screaming at the top of her lungs.

I jumped out of bed and picked her up so fast I swear I didn’t know what I was doing until we were both back in my bed.  Examining her for bumps, protruding bones, and blood, I came to the conclusion that there was no need to call 911 just yet.

How she fell out of her crib is almost a mystery, but maybe more so to my “i-can’t-believe-she’s-growing-so-fast” side as opposed to an outsider’s view.  She gets on her hands and knees, she sits up, she crawls, and I suppose this was her showing me that she can, indeed, pull her self up on objects.  From what I can figure, she just pulled herself right up and over she went, which is surely a red flag. 

Time for mommy to lower the crib mattress to the next level.

Back to my original thought, however; this all makes me wonder if I am cut out for this baby thing.  I am seriously questioning my parental skills and instincts in which are used and needed to raise a child.  And, for that matter, there should be absolutely no need to question such skills, since they started maturing at the age of………… Oh when was my sister born?  Tenish. 

Does anyone else have these days where they feel nothing has been or can go right?  I am at a loss with myself, and while I’m sure I’m just having a bad day, this is sort of bothering me. 

Had I been awake, this couldn’t have happened.  If I had lowered the crib when she started crawling, she wouldn’t have fallen out.  What if she broke her neck?? What would I have told Justin and my family?!?!

Time to go lower the crib.  Like, yes, RIGHT NOW!!!

Sometimes life sends us on weird, crazy, absolutely terrible paths that seem bumpy and completely impassable.
Truth be told I thought I wasn’t going to be able to get through the holiday blues this year. As each minute drug into an hour which later became a day, I wanted to curl up and be DONE with it all. Things couldn’t get worse. Struggling to get up each day, running away seemed to be my only getaway.
Waiting for the inevitable, I watched the depression blanket my heart. Konnor and Ariana no longer seemed to warm my heart, and I thought for sure I was going to give up. I could see them drifting further and further away. Writing, blogging, photographing were all chores not, not happiness.  No fight left in me, I waited for the storm to pass. Or engulf me into eternal sadness.
As I waited, however, I realized something. My name is Alexandra. The one that ran away as a Sophomore. The same girl that dealt with death, sadness, divorce. I have a mother who has been to hell and back in life, and raising me was far from easy. Emotional as I may be, I am stubborn and strong. Why in the hell am I sitting here, feeling sorry for myself? I have been in worse situations. Now I am a mother, and life has thrown me curves, but those two little faces mean more to me than this world could ever give me.
Standing up and brushing myself off, my determination to get through this darkness in my life started.
Between positive thoughts and a strong support system, I broke through. Knowing that two little smiles, four beautiful eyes, and voices as loud as my own, needed me was what really pulled me. You see, one’s heart is not really able to be full of sadness when you are consumed by so much unconditional love.
Over the last month or so, I have learned that I need to slow down. Take it all in. Realize that I have come so far to get where I am today. Things don’t always go how I want them to, but that is part of life. For a moment in time I forgot the saying I live by: everything happens for a reason. Fact.
And all of a sudden, the little things, which is most important to me, matter again. I have a new appreciation for the world around me. Again, I am happy.