This past week we received one of those middle of the night phone calls that comes with bad news. Our cousin's daughter had passed away earlier that day unexpectedly from complications of peritonitis. My head couldn't quite comprehend the news, even as my heart immediately ached for her Mom and family. None of us expected that call, yet we weren't necessarily surprised by it either. Emma had spent her short time on earth bound by a body that failed her, and I had contemplated that she might leave us too soon.
Emma was born the year after my youngest daughter was born. We were fortunate enough to be stationed on the same side of the country as her parents at the time, so we were able to visit her soon after she was born. She was this tiny little dark haired sweet infant girl with soulful eyes who captured my heart the first time I held her. There was nothing that pointed to immediate problems, but as the months passed, Emma didn't hit those developmental benchmarks that the doctors look for. She began to manifest more serious medical complications, and her Mom started chasing answers, therapies, specialists, and hope. Months turned into years, and it became evident that Emma was on a journey very much her own and would develop and progress in her own time and way.
Because of her special needs, Emma didn't travel often, so we only managed a few visits with her over the years. After I received the news, I started making phone calls. Thee first calls were to my daughters. I was expecting them to be upset, but I considered the possibility that they might not have enough long term memories with Emma to feel the loss as deeply as I knew her local cousins would. I couldn't have been more wrong; they both melted down at the news. As we talked throughout the day, they shared memories of Emma and her sister, Eleni, that I had never heard. We laughed, we cried, we contemplated why, and pondered all of the things you do when you lose someone so young and so suddenly. And as I went to sleep that night night still thinking about Emma's life, it hit me. This was Emma's gift. You didn't have to know her long to fall in love with her. She may not have had the ability of speech, but she had an incredible capacity for communication. She could reach into your heart without uttering a word.
As we say goodbye to her, I find myself conflicted. I feel pain from her loss, but if I am honest, I also feel a sense of hope. Emma spent her years struggling against a body that didn't work for her and living in a world where most people measured her by all the things she wasn't able to do. In my heart, I know she is in heaven free from the physical constraints, embraced and welcomed by all around her. As my daughter Charlie so aptly said to me, "Emma's not Resting in Peace, She's Running in Peace. " Run in Peace dear Emma. We love you.
