Words that were never meant to be said

On May 17th, Molly died.


That is not a sentence that was ever meant to be written.  Even as I type it, my stomach drops, my eyes fill with tears, and I am overwhelmed with the enormity of those five words.


On May 17th, Molly died.


For 20 months, I have known that this was a possibility, if not a probability.  But the mind is a powerful liar and I have spent 20 months believing that Molly would beat it.  I mean, if any kid was ever going to magically cure herself of an incurable disease, it was going to be Molly.  She was a tough cookie from the day I met her.  I can remember babysitting the Dunne kids when Kristen was recovering from a surgery - Molly and Kate would have been about 2, almost 3 - Molly liked to change her clothes about 14 times a day and it made her dad (the chief laundry doer) crazy.  After about the third outfit change, I tried to dissuade Mols from going back into her room for yet another change, and she let me know in no uncertain terms that this was HER house and that I was NOT her mom.

Another time, the summer before she got sick, I was watching the kids and I told her no about one thing or another and she simply stared defiantly at me.  I thought "I have to stare this kid down or I'm never going to have an ounce of credibility with her again." And as we eyeballed one another, a different thought occurred to me, I thought "This kid is going to punch me in the nose."  When Molly was in the hospital and the diagnosis of PH had been made, I can remember sitting in the waiting room of the cardiac unit, holding Kristen's hands saying that if it was any other kid, I'd be more worried.  But Molly?  She would stand up in her bed in the CICU and say "Hell no!  I'm going to beat this."


Kristen and I live close together and we used to say that one of us had to move before our daughters entered their teens, as we could totally imagine them all sneaking out of their houses together.   I imagined the trouble they would get into, driving around town, honking at boys, singing along with crappy pop songs, doing the things that teenaged girls do.


On May 17th, Molly died.


Though I knew what the chances were, I spent very little time thinking about what things were going to be like if Molly died.  During the last week, when Kristen mentioned that she was thinking about taking Molly to AI so she could say goodbye to her therapists, and even though I knew what she meant, my brain could only think of saying goodbye like she was graduating or moving or going to a new school.  Not like she was dying.  It seemed completely unreal.  It still does seem completely unreal.  Kristen recently posted a photo of Molly's grave covered in the flowers from the funeral, and my gut reaction was one of wanting to claw at the earth and uncover her, because it would be too dark and cold and scary for a 7 year old and some remote part of my brain is holding on to the wish that this is all a dream and there was a terrible mistake and that Molly's in there, pissed off and wanting to play with her toys.

People keep telling me what a great friend I am, and every time I hear it, I cringe.  Nothing I did changed the fact that Molly died, that Kristen and her family have to live with an unimaginable amount of pain.  I should have done more with the Miracles page, had more fundraisers, gone to see Molly more.  None of it would have changed anything, I know that.  But the thoughts are still there - what if, what if, what if?


On May 17th, Molly died.


And now we have to live with that.



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