To Cana

Submitted by Ethan (Cana’s dad)

Cana,

It’s been one year since we met you, and one year since we lost you. Even a full year later, the details of those 30 hours between finding out that your heart had stopped and meeting you face-to-face are as vivid as ever. Standing motionless on the patio at work when I got the call that your heartbeat was gone. The blur of the drive to meet your mom at the doctor’s office and rush you both to the hospital. The phone calls that I made to your grandparents one by one. Our uncontrollable sobbing in the ultrasound room, and the complete disbelief that this was really happening. The dreadful fear in knowing that when we would finally get the chance to meet you, you would already be gone. The deafening silence of the delivery room when you were born the next day. That beautiful face that looked so much like your mom and me.

Through all the anger, sadness and pain of losing you, you have still taught me so, so much this year Cana. I now know that there is no “moving on,” there is only “moving with.” Moving on implies that I’ve “gotten over” something. That I’ve left it behind and moved past it. How could I possibly do that? There is only moving forward, and learning to be okay living in/with that pain in a healthy way. I also now know that time absolutely does not heal all wounds; at best, they just stop bleeding. Sometimes, that has to be enough. A part of my very being was removed when you died, and I can’t expect that kind of wound to fully heal back to what it once was. If carrying the pain of losing you is the only way of knowing just how deeply I love you, I will gladly carry that pain; it is worth the price.

One year ago, it felt like my world was crumbling around me. In the year since you died, you’ve helped me find the most heartfelt, loving, amazing people among the rubble. People who know the same pain that your mom and I feel, or at least have the empathy to imagine what it must be like to lose your firstborn child. Because of these people, sharing your name and your story doesn’t bring me sadness anymore, but unbridled joy. It also now brings me a strange comfort, knowing that I’m ultimately headed to where you are now; you simply got there before me. Some people can’t fathom being at peace with that idea, but that’s how this type of loss can change you. I’m simply unafraid of the end, because I know that you’re already there waiting for me somewhere. Your mom and I owe it to you to make the most out of the time that we do have on this side of life, knowing that we now live for you too. I promise that I will do everything in my power to make you proud by being grateful for every breath I have here on this side. Happy first Heavenly birthday, my Sunshine.

Love,

Dad