We are enjoying ourselves, my young daughter and me, soaking in the sunshine, breathing in the fresh air, and savoring this rare opportunity for just the two of us to be together. I turn my back for just a second to grab something just out of reach, and when I turn around again, she is not there. I turn every way, thinking surely she is just a few steps away, but I do not see her anywhere. I start calling her name, not caring if other people are staring, and try not to panic.
After a few unsuccessful moments of being unable to find her, I locate a security guard to help me. I describe her as best as I can: 4-years old, long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, pink sparkly dress (did it have a unicorn or a rainbow on it? I suddenly can’t remember!), flip-flops on her little feet. He goes one way, speaking into his walkie-talkie with his colleagues, and I go the other way, calling her name, more loudly now, looking frantically in every space, around every corner, under every surface.
Ten fear-filled minutes later, I finally spot her, huddled into a heap, sobbing into her arms, crying Mommy! I want my Mommy! over and over again. This young child has just endured, for ten fear-filled minutes, her worst nightmare: losing her mother. I run to her and scoop her into my arms, where she continues weeping into my shoulder, her tears staining my shirt. It takes a long time to console her, to assure her, Mommy’s here now. I love you so much! You are safe!
The moment I first met her, four years ago, I said almost the exact same words to her. When our foster agency called, asking if we could care for an infant, a baby girl whose health challenges made other foster families say no, I was thrilled, so excited to say yes! I walked into the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) at the hospital, walked straight to her bassinet, peaked in at the gorgeous child bundled up inside, and fell instantly in love!
While the hospital staff and social workers were gathering documents, signing discharge paperwork, and completing custody orders, I sat in a nearby rocking chair and held in my arms this baby girl who would soon be going home with me. I looked around at this tiny room where she had spent the first month of her life, and noticed signs that her mother had been here. Evidence left by the one who had come before me. A half-eaten candy bar. An almost-empty bottle of soda. A People magazine.
Did she leave suddenly? Was she escorted out? When did she know that she would be leaving, not taking her daughter with her? I later saw online that she had signed up on a baby registry, requesting, among other things, a leopard-print blanket and a black leather diaper bag, small clues to her personality and tastes. At one point, then, she had obviously had hopes and dreams for her baby. She had been making plans. Now she was gone, just a few small items carelessly left behind, the only sign that she had once been here.
I suddenly felt deep sadness, not only for the mother whose choices and circumstances had led to this, but for this innocent child lying in my arms. She had only been alive on this earth for one month, and already she had lost her mother.
I pulled her tiny face into the soft part of my neck, and whispered into her ear, I am your Mommy now. I love you so much! You are safe!
For two tenuous years, my family and I loved on this child. Despite the uncertainty of her future, never sure what the courts would decide, I faced each day with such gratitude, so thankful for the great privilege of being her mother. For the great joy of watching her grow and thrive and learn and develop and blossom.
Finally, the glorious day arrived when she was adopted into our family! The day the courts decreed that I could be her mother, not just temporarily, but forever! Never would we be separated. Never again would she have to experience the loss of a mother.
Here’s the thing, though. Sometimes forever turns out to not really mean forever. Sometimes forever ends way too soon. Just two years after my beloved little girl became a part of our “forever” family, I was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer. A rare, incurable, aggressive form of cancer that has turned my body into a battlefield. Although I am doing absolutely everything I can to conquer the enemy inside me, absolutely everything I can do to live, there are no guarantees. I face each day, not knowing how much longer I will be able to fight. With the very real possibility that my precious daughter, still innocent, will once again be losing her mother.
And I can hardly bear the sadness of it! If she is huddled into a heap, sobbing into her arms, crying Mommy! I want my Mommy! over and over again after ten fear-filled minutes without me, how will she ever endure being without me at all? It will be her worst nightmare!
Attachment theory research suggests that children dealing with grief from losing a parent are vulnerable to long-term emotional problems such as struggling with depression, dealing with anxiety, being withdrawn, showing problems in school. (1) The fact that my sweet girl may be at risk of facing long-term emotional problems - that I myself may have caused! - is a suffocating thought. Unbearable!
Just last week she decided that she was ready to ride her bike by herself. No training wheels, no practice, and no help from me. She strapped her helmet under her neck, settled onto the seat, placed her feet on the pedals, gave herself a little push, and there she went down the driveway, her back straight and confident, her eyes filled with pride at her unexpected success. So brave. So fearless. So self-assured. I stood there clapping and cheering her on, thankful that I was present and feeling well enough at that moment to witness her accomplishment!
She has, by necessity, become very independent during these past few months. Getting herself ready for bed, folding her own laundry, packing her lunch for preschool all by herself. And now, watching her coast down the driveway on her bike, I cannot help but wonder in what other ways – both noticeable and subtle – my illness has forever changed her. And should she face the unspeakable grief of losing me, will her back still be straight and confident? Will she still be brave, fearless and self-assured?
Here’s the thing, though. The thing I need to remember when my fears for her future threaten to overwhelm me, sucking the breath right out of my lungs. When our beloved little girl became a part of our forever “family,” she became a part of a much larger family. A family with older sisters, cousins, aunts, and grandmothers. She became part of an even larger family, a community of mommy’s friends, church mothers, teachers, and neighbors. A sisterhood of strong women who can show her what it means to be a strong woman.
Even if my fighting isn't enough, even if I don't make it through this battle, she will be surrounded by other women who can love her as she processes her grief. Women who can encourage her to keep her back straight and confident. Who can be present at those moments, witnessing her accomplishments, clapping and cheering her on.
And hopefully, most importantly, if the unthinkable happens and she loses her mother, if she comes face to face with her worst nightmare, these women in her life, these sisters and cousins and aunts and grandmothers and friends, will point her to Jesus, the One who longs for her to be a part of His “forever family” in the truest sense of the word. The One who promises to never leave her or forsake her. (2) The One who assures her that He will carry her (3) and will rescue her (4)
Hopefully this “forever family,” this sisterhood of strong women will point her to Jesus, the only One who can pull her close and whisper into her ear, I am here. I love you so much! You are safe!
2. “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid, for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you.” - Deuteronomy 31:6
3. “Even to your old age I am He, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.” – Isaiah 46:4
4. “Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily! Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me!” – Psalm 31:2
Belinda, Belinda, Belinda -- you are a writer, a force, a mother, a visionary like no other I have met. I am beyond blessed to know you, to bear witness to your mothering of your very blessed children and to experience the love you give.
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