HOPE'S STORY, PART 15: "I PRAY THE LORD MY SOUL TO TAKE"

The last entries from my mom's 'journal':

30 October, 2011

Since last night it has been hard breathing for Hope.


31 October, 2011

Hope got her wings last night.




Sunday was a long day of difficult breathing for her.  Caeli and Tyler took turns holding her all day and each of them held one of her hands and continually told her how much they loved her and spoke soothing words to her.  About 8:20 pm the labored breathing stopped and with it her once strong heartbeat.  Tyler hugged her tight and cried.  He gave her to Caeli and she did the same.
Some time passed in reverence and then, as promised, I called Thom and Tyler called his parents.  Caeli held Hope.
More reverence, more phone calls and text messages.
Two hours or more passed and it was time to take Hope's little body to the funeral home.  They wanted to take her themselves.  Lovingly they wrapped her in a blanket that Caeli had made and drove quietly, reverently, with peaceful words of love and thanks.  Hope got to ride with Mom in the front seat this time.
When we arrived at the funeral home, no one moved...more reverence.  I think a prayer was said for Hope's body.  We were met by a kind gentleman who gathered some necessary information and made an appointment for them to return at 11 the next morning.
Saying good-bye to Hope's body was not as hard as they thought it would be because it was obviously just her body, but another prayer was said in the car before driving back home.
About midnight we arrived back at their apartment.  As I took off my jacket and entered into the living room, I had the strong impression that Hope was very much still there.

***

I didn't write in my journal about the night Hope went home.  But I want to say something about it now.
I thought Sunday, the 30th of October, would be like every other day.  But at about 10 am, as I sat in bed with Hope, and Tyler got ready for the morning, she started breathing in the way we had been warned about.
I won't say much about it, except that of all the days we had Hope with us, this was the hardest, the very hardest to watch.  Afterwards, nurses and doctors told us it is likely that at that point, consciousness wasn't the same for her, and that is a little of a comfort to me.
I held Hope on my lap in bed and brushed her face.  I did everything possible to keep myself from sinking into solid, never-come-back-from despair.  We listened to music, we watched those Mormon Messages I keep posting on here (there are a bunch of them), we made an effort to talk about good things, my mom sat in the chair next to the bed and she and Tyler comforted me as I told them I didn't think I could take or do this.  We did all we could to help Hope feel loved and comfortable.
I think there was a hollowness that helped me get through that day.  Some visitors came that night.  As one of them held Hope, it was very clear to me that her color wasn't right.  When they left, Tyler, Hope, my mom and I sat in the living room.  Tyler held Hope.  Her spasmatic breathing came at intervals now.  Somehow, Tyler had seemed to calm her.  At one point I put eye drops in her eyes to keep them wet and commented that she looked like she was in a coma.
A few minutes later Tyler said, "She's gone."
We wept.  Tyler gave her to me as he called the necessary people and I held her on my tummy, in her froggy position, like she liked, and kissed her head and ran my fingers over her hair.
We went to the funeral home.
And then some remarkable things happened.
The first happened at the funeral home.  From the day we found out about Hope's condition, one of my greatest fears, had to do with the day I would hand her body over to those who would make final preparations.  How would I feel?  Would I want to hold on to her little body as long as I possibly could?  Would I feel like it was the last part of her I had and not want to give her up?  How hard would it be?
I got my answer that night:  Of all the things that Hope's life had required, this was one of the easiest.  It was not an issue.  It is hard to explain, but if you have had a loved one die, you may know what I am talking about.  It is the distinct knowledge:  "That's not her."  In some ways, it didn't even look like Hope anymore.  What remained was simply the sweet receptacle that held her spirit, but she wasn't there.
And that was the second remarkable thing.  I say this carefully, because I think it is a sacred thing, too.  I share it because it is part of my testimony that death is not the end, rather a necessary part on an eternal path.  Hope wasn't there in her body at the funeral home.  It was when we came home around midnight, that we found she had been waiting for us, right there in our home.
I went to sleep to such a sweet spirit in our home.  Something big had just happened, and I could feel it, but I was not sorrowful.  I looked at her crib and her clothes and her little strawberry hat and I wasn't sad.  I felt peace.  I slept well.
My mom spent the night that night.  The next morning we started to make the necessary plans for Hope's "Celebration of Life".  It wouldn't be a funeral.  There was a sweet spirit, even joy, as we planned and organized.  I missed Hope terribly, and there would be nights and days, where just walking by her crib would put me in tears, but I remember those days after she passed with tenderness. I like to think back on them because of the feeling I get.

I used to count the days since Hope had passed.  My fear, at first, was that as weeks grew into months and into years that I would feel more and more distant from her because of time.  But then a thought:  If I see things as they really are, the days that pass don't take me further away from Hope, but bring me closer to seeing her again.   And so I close with the words of Moroni, the last prophet to write in the Book of Mormon:  "And what is it that ye shall hope for?  Behold, I say unto you that ye shall have hope through the atonement of Christ and the power of his resurrection, to be raised unto life eternal, and this because of your faith in him according to the promise."