Wildflowers

In the past, when I’ve sat down to write, the words have always been there for me. But this time is different: for the first time I can remember, the words seem to be just out of reach. This may explain why I haven’t had the heart to put my heart on paper (or a screen, to be more accurate). I’m still not sure what I want to say or how I want to say it, but there are things that need to be said. And because words are failing me, I’ll start with the truth: my sweet Millie lost her battle with MLD on March 23. She fought until the end, and we did everything we could to make her short time with us as happy and comfortable as possible. But what we had to give, what anyone could have given her, wasn’t enough.

I wish I had the confidence or certainty that so many of you have shared with me about where she is now. But it comes down to a simple fact for me: wherever she is, the pain is gone. In the end all we could do was love her. Wherever she is, she knows she is loved. So very loved. By me and Justin, by Nate and Flo, by our families and close friends, but also by all of you. I like to picture her in a field of wildflowers, smiling and carefree, with this Tom Petty song playing softly:

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong somewhere close to me
Far away from your trouble and worries
You belong somewhere you feel free

I’m sure a lot of you are wondering how we are doing. And I think you can understand how difficult a question that is right now. Sometimes we’re fine. Sometimes it’s all I can do to go about my life. I feel Millie in my heart and I carry her with me everywhere, and those feelings sometimes bring me joy and sometimes a sadness I don’t have words for. I know she would want me to keep adventuring, to smile with my whole body, to love so purely that it can be seen and felt by everyone, to not give up and be the best version of myself. Those are things she gave me, and I’m trying to pay it forward in her memory. Between the tears, of course; and there are many, many tears.

There is a Millie-shaped hole in my heart. I try to rearrange the pieces of my life to round out the corners of this hole every so slightly, to encourage the hole to slowly heal into a Millie-shaped scar. Never to be forgotten, and a beautiful reminder of a life cut far too short.

We knew the end was coming well before it arrived, and Millie gave us lots of time to accept what was happening and grieve with her. Looking back, it was a beautiful gift she gave us: to be able to tell her how loved she was and say our goodbyes without hurry. To know she heard every word we had to say, every song we had to sing, felt every tear we had to shed. It wasn’t easy, but it was such a Millie thing for her to be able to do. She always wanted to make sure that we were happy, that we were proud of her, that she was doing the right thing. I’m so glad we could tell her all those things and so much more.

The week Millie left us, every purple flower in my garden started blooming. Some right on schedule, some far earlier than they should be blooming. And no other color had yet popped out. You may say this is a coincidence, maybe it’s the California drought making some strange things happen. But I think it was Millie: telling me she’s okay, showing me that life can and will go on with fresh starts, giving me a garden awash in our mutual favorite color.

And would you look at that? It seems I did have the words. These words are big and scary and full of emotion, but that’s honestly how our life is right now. I’m fortunate to be able to share with you all, and I hope that together we can all keep Millie’s memory alive. She was beautiful, sweet, loving, strong: a fighter and a lover. She was everything I could have ever hoped for in a daughter.