To remember, or not?

Its September, and among other things, I went digging around to find the yellow ribbon holding my daughters face in the center.  I almost set it up with second thought, but then I stopped.  And thought for a moment, about what it meant.  And then I almost didn’t set it up.  Because of what it meant.  And I had to wonder if really, it did any good.  Because people still have cancer.  People are still dieing from cancer.  Cancer is still lurking around, and there is still that 50/50 shot that it could or could not work and I don’t like that.  Also?  I would prefer to remember Emmy, without cancer being a part of it.

And I do.

I remember her.  I remember her laughs and smiles and cries.  I remember her face, her hands.  I remember it all, and yet she isn’t here and its only a memory of mine that I cant invite people in to see, and do I really want everyone associating her name, and her with cancer, because really, that’s all they’ve got.

People say that kids are “More than what they are labeled with.”  That this kid is not “Autism” and this kid is not “ADD” but instead this kid has a name and his/her name is ‘fill in the blank.’  But some reason when it comes to her, I don’t see her name anymore without anything attached.  Almost as if my mind has warped from remembering her, to remembering the disease that took her.  And that is not what I want to do at all.  I want to smother it out, and forget all about it.

But instead of remembering her when I hear a song, or see a color.  Instead of remembering her when I hear a laugh, or a shriek of joy…I remember her when I see the word “Cancer” or “Tumor.”  Instead I see her in the hospital windows, in the words that parents write when their child has been diagnosed.  In the pain I see other people going through while trying to beat this, because life is so fragile, but so wonderful at the same time.

I want to remember her for who she was, not what took her.  I want to remember her for my little girl, and not the girl who wasn’t strong enough to fight anymore.  I want her here, and not cancer.  But instead, another year has come and passed.  Another year without her.  Another year with the six letter word that has taken more lives.  And hurt more people.  And this year…I just don’t want to associate with it.  I don’t want the ribbon.  I want my daughter.  I don’t want the committees for cures, I want the damn cure already.

This year, I know all the people in my life who have been effected.  This year I see all the faces of people who may not have been able to beat it.  This year I see the people who are still fighting.  I see a sick combination of healthy/sick people.  And I see the common thread that runs between.  This year, I don’t want to give it the attention it doesn’t deserve.  But will…for those people still fighting.  This year, I hope is the year that a cure is found.

And I will keep hoping.  Because sometimes all you have left is hope.  No matter how small.

Please let me share her with you, and know that she was more.  More than cancer.

She was my daughter.

 

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