The number 35 in itself doesn't make me think of old, young, or whatever. But it is a significant number today. Thirty five years ago today Damara died. I remember being absolutely heartbroken when Don called the hospital and asked how she did during the night. I remember wanting to curl up in a ball and die, too. We waited so long to have her. She was here such a short time. In their efforts to "protect and help" our parents took over and there are so many things I regret that I didn't get to do. I didn't get to hold her all the way home. I didn't get to go to the mortuary and make arrangements, I got to go when they said I could go to the viewing. I got to mindlessly do things, eat this, go there, stay here, etc. I know our parents thought they were helping and they did, but I didn't get to have my time with her. I look at her tiny dress she wore home from the hospital, I see her little mask she wore at St. Joseph's Hospital and if I shut my eyes and think really hard, I can hear her groans, I can still smell her. She had a sweet smell. I miss my Grandma Gillliam. She called a lot and asked how I was. She always knew when it was a bad day. I miss her. I love her.
Today I celebrate little Ryker's 3rd birthday and recall being there when he was born and the pure love that Tad has for him. My heart breaks that Tad and Chelsea are not together raising Ryker and Cache and I don't understand why Tad has had so much sadness in his life. The one true joy in his life is Ryker. That kids lights up the room no matter where he is. He is loved and cherished.
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