This picture was taken about 2 weeks before Ashleigh died. Becky Johnson fixed her hair and put the pretty ribbons in it. After the picture was taken, Ashleigh threw up all over her beautiful dress. Janet Webster immediately rushed the dress to the cleaners. My friends knew what I wanted that dress for, and Janet told the cleaners that we needed it asap, without divulging to them the reason. Ashleigh was buried in that dress. The day after the funeral I received the picture in the mail.I don't remember very much about Monday September 16, 1991, I really only have two significant memories of that day. But first, I'm going to back up just a bit.
Ashleigh had been on a feeding tube since July 2, which of course meant that she was in our constant care. For two and a half months I was pretty much home bound. I will write more about things that happened during this time in a later post.
The doctor (Neurosurgeon at PCMC) explained to me in July, what would happen as Ashleigh's illness progressed. One of the most important things she told me was that Ashleigh would eventually become semi-comatose and then comatose, which would indicate that her time was very close.
Twenty years ago today, I knew that the time was at hand, Ashleigh was in a comatose state. Late, on Sunday evening September 15th, Ashleigh had a fever. This was not an ordinary fever, it was one like I had never seen before. Half of her body was hot... and the other half was cold. But the real out of the ordinary was this... it wasn't a split-down-the-middle half, it was a right arm and torso/left leg, and left arm and torso/right leg half. Did that explanation make sense? I had never seen anything like it.
At about 10-ish on that Sunday night (during this fever time), my brother Tim called to tell me that my niece Megan had just been born. That was joyous news to receive amidst the turmoil we were experiencing. It is interesting the way that life unfolds, my sister-in-law Margie had spent much of the summer on bed rest waiting for baby Megan's safe birth. I on the other hand, spent the summer waiting for the opposite where Ashleigh was concerned. Megan's birth and Ashleigh's death were less than 36 hours apart. Twenty years ago, births registered in the local hospitals were printed in the local newspapers, so... Megan's birth announcement and Ashleigh's obituary were on the same page in the SL newspapers, and I still have a copy of one of those papers.
So, back to September 16th. My first memory is very simple, I'm not really sure why I'm sharing it, but I think it is somewhat significant. I simply went to the grocery store. It was late in the afternoon, I don't know what I purchased, I don't know who was at home with Ashleigh, I just remember going to the store and being away from my "present" world for just a few moments. I was exhausted. Worn down. My strength was almost gone. I knew it and I felt it. I felt alone. I don't think I looked very well. You can see a lot by looking into someones eyes.
My second memory is very tender and heartbreaking. You may not want to continue reading. Later that evening my parents came to visit. My parents are amazing people. They love their family un-conditionally and they take good care of all of us, and that night I needed them (I still need them).
I was sitting on the couch, holding Ashleigh who was cradled in my arms. My dad sat on one side of me and my mom on the other, and they each had their arms tightly around me. There is something comforting about being in the arms of your parents, even when you are 33 years old. My parents hurt; they hurt for their baby girl, just as I hurt for my baby girl. I had been pretty brave throughout the past 13 months, but I cried as I sat there, safe in my parents arms. I'm crying as I write this, because I will never forget my anguished sob as I said to them, "I'm the one she wants." And of course they agreed, she didn't want to leave me, she loved me. But someone else wanted Ashleigh. Someone who loved her so much. Someone whose pain far surpassed mine, and made it possible for me to bear this pain.
