"My daughter has the same name as you."

"Oh, really? How old is she?"

"Seven and a half."

I didn't expect that. I thought she would have been older, because you were almost the same age as my mother was when she had the same disease. I foolishly applied the lens of my own experience and assumed your daughter would have been a teenager like I was. I paused, recovered, and finished the exam. I gave you a tight-lipped smile as I left your room.


I kept my head down as I left the ward because I didn't want anyone to notice my eyes brimming with tears. I needed to go somewhere safe; where I could be alone with the pressure that was building in my chest. I headed to my hideaway on the second floor - a secluded handicapped bathroom. I stepped inside, leaned my forehead against the door and closed my eyes. This hit too close to home, and it was the first time I had encountered a situation so similar to my own. We had the same cultural background and it was too easy for your situation to reflect mine.

I cried, and not the delicate, feminine weeping of movies. I ugly-cried with sobs wracking my body as I cried for you, yes, but more for your daughter. My heart broke for her because I knew what was coming for her - as soon as I walked into your room, I instinctively knew that you were not long for this world. In the next few weeks, your suffering would end but her life would be changed forever.

I knew that the shadow of loss would always stay with her. Grief doesn't disappear but it does transform. The mourning tears of the acute phase tend to dissipate as the fresh wound heals, but the scars remain. Everyone's scars differ and I wondered if your daughter would have similar experiences  as I do.

Would she feel pangs of longing when she had to deal with usual tasks of adulthood, like figure out buying her first car, doing her own taxes, needing career advice? Family get-togethers aren't the same; graduations and celebrations are always shadowed by the conspicuous absence. The shape of the loss changes, as well, as now that I am older I long for the ability to ask her for advice and wonder how we'd relate to each other. When my heart is broken, she isn't there to help mend the pieces and move on from disappointment and loss. Sometimes I wonder how she'd react to things, or what advice she might give me, or what it would be like to be hugged by her when I needed it. If I ever have a child, she won't be around to help me muddle through the process. God only knows what my own future will bring. I am blessed to have people who care about me but nothing can ever replace the role of a loving mother. There is a security and a safety in that dynamic; I understood all too well when a lecture described the loss of parents as losing a shield from the world.

Through my tears, I recognized that I was being selfish. I am not the first nor am I the last to lose a parent. Your daughter was half the age I was when I lost my mother; I realized my fortune and prayed your daughter would retain her memories of you. I hoped her father would shelter her with love to try to offset the void you left.

The tears stopped and my breathing slowed back to normal. I splashed my red, blotchy face in the mirror, put my usual smile back on my face and headed back to the ward where other patients needed care. There will always be grief surrounding us, just as there will always be love.

I met your daughter. She had a long, dark ponytail and a spunky demeanour; I hope that she keeps that fortitude to carry her through life. She seemed blissfully ignorant of the gravity of the situation and I remembered the same parallels from my youth. I'm still not sure if it's better for children to know or not know; after all, I've never been in the position to make that decision. Your son, a quiet, thin teenager, wore a wary expression that revealed his insight into your situation. Your husband was struggling; I remember his desperation as he asked me if there was any more treatment possible. I could see how much you loved your family and how they loved you.

You died within two weeks, Mrs. A. I never saw your daughter again. She would be about nine years old now, and I occasionally wonder how she's doing. I hope that her spark is never extinguished, and that she carries you with her. I hope she is blessed with patience and strength and that she never feels alone.