Gentle

We got the call we've been waiting for today. Seventy-nine days ago our daughter, Julia, woke up sick and died in the same day. We were told she had a stomach virus. Nothing made sense. We were told we wouldn't hear any results from the autopsy until November, at the earliest. Even then we may not have an answer. But today the pathologist called. He discovered the cause of death for Julia. She had "B-cell acute lymphoblastic leukemia (blood cancer)." It feels strange to hear that your baby had cancer after she already died. It seems an odd reverse order for grieving.

The other day I was in the swimming pool asking God how he wanted to interact with me and his answer to me was, "gently." That's the same feeling I had today as we received the news. The doctor who did the autopsy is the one who called us to deliver the news (which is not always the case). He was so kind. So gentle with us. He told us, "You are really great parents. You did all the right things. There's nothing you could have done differently." Friends have been telling us this all along but it felt powerful to hear an official diagnosis. The violence of our own thoughts against ourselves has lessened tremendously.

It also changes the way we view the whole day of her death. Realizing that she was dying of cancer makes the events of the day feel...gentler. It could have been far more violent for her. She got to go to Jesus while falling asleep in mama's arms, with daddy and bunny right there. Gently. We asked the doctor if she felt pain and he said "no." It was likely the cancer came on rapidly and that the symptoms she had the last day were her first and only symptoms.* Gentle.

It also feels like the violence we did witness that day (through the intensity of Julia's symptoms) is now validated -- like a piece of my brain has been put back together ever so slightly. It definitely felt like Julia had something much bigger going on than a stomach bug, but she had never been sick before so I had nothing to compare it to. I was left only with paranoia and confusion. Now my brain can have a bit of peace, having a name to put to what we witnessed that day. Cancer, not a stomach virus.

There are still many, many more questions for God and things to process. Our grief has turned a corner and we will see where it goes next. But for now, I'm thankful for the gentleness.

*Note: I edited this sentence after updated info from the doctor.