Missing Milestones…Missing You.

By Guest Blogger, Lauren Hanna Frias.

18 months. Today you would be 18 months old. Again another milestone that I can’t take a picture of…

It’s summer and there are parties and picnics. Friends asking us to join. And we can’t because it’s too hard. Because you’re not here. It’s too hard to watch families with their arms full of children. Mommies with babies who don’t realize it hurts me to look at them. Because they have what I want.

I’m sorry I never got to take you to the zoo. To the aquarium. To the beach. To an amusement park. I never got to share my love of roller coasters with you. I never got to catch you as you slid down a slide. Or teach you how to ride a bike. I’m sorry I never got to see you running to me, your arms open wide, smiling and laughing as you jumped into my arms. I’m sorry I never get to teach you how to cook or bake. I’m sorry I never get to see you off on your first day of school or meet you at the end. I’m sorry I never get to teach you how to put on makeup, or do your hair. I’m sorry I never get to talk to you about boys. I’m sorry we won’t go to the mall, shop till we drop. I’m sorry I’ll never see your teenage self roll your eyes at me. I’m sorry I’ll never get to help you pick out your wedding dress, see you married to the man of your dreams, have babies…

I’m sorry mommy and daddy couldn’t keep you here. We tried. We held you for every poke, every prod. We questioned and researched and prayed over every decision. We had thousands of people praying for you. We shared every detail in hopes people would keep praying for you. We gave you every med, every food, every chemo…everything to try to make you better.

We held you as you vomited, rushed you to the hospital. Anxiously waited through every surgery, every code, every emergency. Holed ourselves up in the hospital and at home in hopes of keeping you from getting an infection.

Did you know? Your whole family was there with us, waiting each time you were sick. Waiting for news. Waiting for you to wake up. To open your eyes. Sitting at your bedside. Stroking your little head, or your stinky little feet. Did you know how much your whole family adored you? Did you know poppop kept his beard long waiting for you to open your eyes and pull on it like you used to? That your grandmothers sat around your hospital bed with empty arms waiting to hold you. That your aunts and uncles and cousins prayed for you and asked about you and organized fundraisers. That your church prayed for us, supported us. That literally thousands of people prayed…many who we never even met? They sent money and food and gifts.

I’m sorry you never got to run around with your little cousins and friends. I’m sorry your friends were doctors and nurses. I’m sorry your playground was a hospital. We tried to keep you here but we couldn’t.

I loved to show you around. I was so proud to be your mommy. Now it’s hard. Because every place reminds me of you. Everywhere I go I remember the last time I was there I was with you. Or, everywhere I go, everything I do I wish you were there…I can’t enjoy myself because I think about how much better it would be if I had a stinky little baby with me. And there are other babies there with their families and mommy is jealous but wishes she wasn’t. Some days it’s hard for mommy and daddy to even leave the house.

Now each day is filled with reminders of you. Going to the cemetery. Looking at your pictures. Yesterday mommy had to pick up your death certificate…that was hard. But we only have reminders and memories…And it’s not enough. We want to hold you, to touch you, to hear your laugh.

I’m sorry, Sophia. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you. You probably wouldn’t want to come back anyway because now you’re happy and whole.

I’m sorry I never get to make you smile or laugh again. There are many days that I have to remind myself that this isn’t it. That we will meet again. That you are happy now and soon you will get to show us all around your new home.

And sometimes there are good days. Like yesterday. We opened probably one hundred gifts and cards. They came from people all over the world. Some came from your doctors and nurses. Some came from family. Some came from people in our church. And many came from people we’ve never even met.

You were so loved, baby girl and not just by us. There was something about you that sucked people in, that made people remember you…you were special.

Mommy and daddy love you. Happy 18 months in heaven my love.

Lauren Hanna Frias and her husband Moises are the parents of Sophia, who passed away from brain cancer on May 14, 2016. Throughout her life, Sophia was loved beyond words by family and friends. Her parents are proud of her long and hard fight to stay in this world, and they have vowed to live for Sophia, and love her, in honor of her memory. You can learn more about Sophia’s Journey on Facebook.

Thank you to the Frias family for sharing Sophia’s story. It’s stories like this that inspire and drive us to find cures for children’s cancer through innovative research.