The Last ‘I Love You’
By Suzanne Leigh
Published on the Huffington Post and iVillage Australia
The day before you left, you had sat at the dining-room table eating pizza. You had showered unassisted and changed into dark sweatpants and a black shirt with pale pink stars and a sassy flounce at the hemline. We were taking a lot of pictures of you, fearing that each picture might be the last. You smiled for each photo, but the smile dissipated with every click. You weren’t happy. You hadn’t been happy for a while.
You had asked constantly for your sister that day. She was at school, we told you gently. Oh, you’d say and minutes later you’d repeat the question. You asked about your friends. They were at school, too. “Oh, why didn’t they say goodbye … they were here just a minute ago,” you said. You had been agitated, sleepless and constantly in motion, your eyes scanning your surroundings for unwelcome surprises.
Something had shifted the day you left. Your anxiety had eased, but you had moved deeper into an alien place where nobody could reach you. I studied you, as I had done every day, but that day I savored your face with fresh torment — the round curious eyes, the curve of your cheeks, the delicate wrists and long slender feet. Beautiful Natasha.
For the first time you needed help to move from the bedroom to the bathroom. We sat on the rim of the tub, my arms around you tightly, as we contemplated what you thought needed to be done. Clean teeth, wash hands, brush hair? But you stared at a patch of clear sky through the skylight. “What are you looking at, Natasha,” I asked. You smiled. Whatever you saw seemed to make you calm, serene even. What were you looking at, Natasha?
I had told you this every day of your life, and I had to say it again, right at that moment: “Natasha, I love you so, so much. Love you so much. Always.”
“I love you so much, too, Mama. Always.” Your voice was surprisingly clear and audible, after speaking softly those last weeks.
With arms entwined, my face brushing against the hair that partially camouflaged the scars carved deep into your skull, we stayed in this position, while you remained transfixed by that patch of blue sky. Eventually we moved you to the couch, where I would leave you to do the morning chores. (I so wish I had stayed with you every second of that day, Natasha.)
“Smoothie or sliced fruit?” I asked you.
“Sliced fruit, please.”
You were facing the window, feet up, while the world outside walked their dogs, set off for an oceanfront jog or unloaded groceries from the trunk of their cars. To everyone else, it seemed a Saturday like any other.
Later that morning, quietly and so quickly, you left this world. Did you feel us kiss your face and stroke your hair? Did you hear us cry out, “We’ll always love you,” Natasha?
We will always love you. You knew that, I think.
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Interesting. I wish I could have talked to Nikki up to the las day. She lost consciousness 5 days before she died. Lost all motor function the 2 days before that day. John.
I think Nikki’s case is more typical of b/t patients, John. Excruciating either way.
Thats a very sad story Im sorry for your loss, Im tearing up right now for U.
Thank you, Howard. I tear up every time I re-read it.
What a beautiful story. I cannot begin to comprehend the pain you must have felt and are still feeling. I am so sorry for your loss.
I’m so sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing “the last I love you.” I’m certain your daughter knew how much you loved her and she left you with an abundance of love. For those fortunate enough to come upon your words, it appears Natasha also generously left behind some extra love for us to share with our children.
Simply gorgeous, and heartbreaking. I’m so very, truly, sorry for your loss.
Laura, Tom and Jenny: Thank you! I love your last sentence Tom; and I love that you say her name. I miss hearing it.
I found this blog post on Huffington Post a few hours ago and I have been reading your posts ever since. Some of them over and over again. I recently lost my grandfather to an 8 year long battle with leukemia. Two of which he spent fighting the disease by himself, not wanting to tell his family and cause them worry. He thought he would handle it on his own. I am still trying to come to terms with my loss. I am still trying to come to terms with how much my mother has lost. She lost her favorite person, and a lion of a man who in his last days, became more like a child for her to take care of.
Natasha is a beautiful, lovely girl. And you are an amazing mother. These will remain true, forever.
I read this poem whenever I feel overwhelmed with my grief. Perhaps you already know it-
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
(Mary Elizabeth Frye)
All my love.
Misha
Very beautiful. Thank you so much, Misha.
I’m sorry for your loss. I lost my adult daughter to cancer nearly 4 years ago. Even though she was technically an adult, she was my child. So much of what your wrote rings true for me too. Peace to you and your family. This is a journey that I wish no one else was making.
Thank you, Marie. I’m so sorry that you lost your daughter, too.
I read this story on HuffPo, and I wanted to reach out. I lost my sweet 6 year old son Joey to a brain tumor in 2010. It sucks having to be a part of this club, this “mamas who have lost their children to cancer” club. I know writing about Joey helps me a lot. Hopefully writing about your beautiful Natasha brings you some comfort as well. Xoxo, you will forever be in my heart and prayers.
Thank you so much for your kind thoughts, Kathy. Yes, writing about Natasha does help me, especially when I get to hear from people like you. I’m so sorry that you’re in the same “club.” Rest in peace, Joey.
I’m honored to read your beautiful story, which reflects the power, beauty and fragility of life. What a lovely girl Natasha was and how lucky she was to have you as her Mom. May peace and comfort surround you and your family.
Thank you so much, Mercedes.
Suzanne, I read the article on Huff Po this afternoon and then promptly looked you up to read more about your beautiful Natasha. I wish somehow I could wave a magic wand –if there were such a thing– and bring her back to you all. She seemed so vibrant, a warrior princess in her own right. Cancer is such a cruel disease–my mom was diagnosed with cancer in March of 2011. I well identify with the “scanxiety,” it is awful! What she went through is tough and scan days continue to fill us with this odd mix of fear and hope even though they say they “got it all.” My heart aches for your loss–a parent should never have to bury their precious child! Lori P.S. Have you ever listened to the song “Held” by Natalie Grant? It is about this very subject.
I haven’t Lori, but I will listen to it on YouTube if you recommend it. Thanks for your comments about my “warrior princess” — yes, that is what she was. My best to you and your mom, especially during those “high scanxiety” days.
The song is heart-wrenching and, to be honest, I don’t know how I would feel listening to it after such a huge loss. I imagine I’d cry—since I sometimes do that now when I hear it; but I also think I’d feel strangely comforted because she captures the feelings in such a way that it seems like she “gets it” and perhaps makes one feel less isolated in their grief. You might want to have a listen sometime. A friend of mine who lost her 19 year old daughter (who had just had a baby several months prior) used that song in a video tribute to her daughter which is how I first heard it.
Wow. There are tears in my eyes. This is so sad, yet so beautiful. Natasha sounded like such a sweet, lovely gem of a girl. The last part of your story struck me deeply. My uncle died almost 20 years ago and to this day I still wonder if he knew just how much I loved him. We said it to each other everyday but unfortunately didn’t get to say goodbye because he was murdered. One of the questions I always had was if he truly knew how much I adored him. His ex wife and my grandma told me he knew. So yes, your angel knew. I don’t even know her but I feel she did. See when we feel loved, it literally has a feeling to it: a warmth. She could feel it, that’s why she became so serene I think. You showed it and said it everyday. ❤
So sorry you lost your uncle this way, Ani. And thank you for your sweet words (I hope your uncle knew you loved him, too; sounds like he did).
Thank you so much honey. I’ll keep you and your family in my thoughts and prayers. Xoxo
From one mother to another, I hold you and yours in my thoughts. The love a parent has for his/her child is indescribable. Be well.
Thank you, Mai.
I have more than just tears in my eyes reading this. I sobbed when I read this. From one mother who has lost a child to another, I ache for you.
I’m sorry to make you sob. And I’m so sad that you lost a child, too.
Once I’ve wiped away the tears, I’m going to go hug my own two daughters. Thank you for sharing this poignant experience with others.
I’m so sorry for your loss. I couldn’t stop crying after I read this, this kind of story makes one not take anyone or anything for granted because you never know what can come tomorrow . Natasha was a beautiful young lady and seemed to be so sweet and loving from what I was reading. May she rest in peace.
I am touched to my soul by the love of a mother,
and her strength in a time of inconsolable hardship.
We, that read this heart wrenching story ..ask why,
but it is obvious that you, dear mother, asked only
to be able to ” kiss it, and make it better”.
Rest in Peace, Natasha, your mother’s love
has brought you many new friends….
Debbie, Crystal and Skip, Thank you for your lovely comments and thank you for saying Natasha’s name.
Thank you for sharing your story. I know it doesn’t do anything to help your pain or loss, but I am so grateful to you for sharing this beautiful girl with the world. I have this feeling that I’m going to think of Natasha often as my own little girl grows and I can’t imagine that I’m alone. I know it’s not a gift you wanted to give or should have had to give (God knows that’s true), but thank you all the same for reminding me to never take having a healthy child for granted.
I love those last words, manymanymoons
What a lovely girl..You can see her soul and her innermost being shining through..I feel sad for you as her Mother..I feel so very sad that we have lost this child though…her Potential? Well…maybe this child had unlimited potential..she may have been the next President…or the one who unlocks the answers to so many medical conundrums…She may well have sprouted Poetry..that you close your eyes..and just enjoy…and drift away.That is what Poetry does.Why..she could have developed a System to enable the Blind to Interact freely with their sighted Classmates…This little girl..so Beloved amongst her Family and close Friends..could have been the Saviour of this Wretched Earth… Rest peacefully little one…We who have never known you,mourn your passing.
I am so very sorry for your loss. I sat down at the computer and came across your story at the end of a very long, trying day with my 3 children where I was on the verge of tears all day because I felt frustrated with them, and was tired. Now I am sobbing because I have realised I am lucky and grateful to have then. I hope I have expressed myself properly. I am going in to their rooms now to give them all a kiss, and to start tomorrow as a new day. Lpve and strength to you x
Thank you so much, Emma!
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I found your blog via Huffington Post. Natasha is a beautiful girl, and I am so sorry she is not here anymore. Thank you for sharing her life and your life without her. Although I always hate to meet new members of the “dead child” club, it helps enormously to know we are not alone.
This post took me back to my son’s final moments, thirteen months ago tomorrow. He was a micro-preemie and died somewhat unexpectedly when he was three weeks old; he never left the NICU. With a daughter at home, whom I had hardly seen after a month in the hospital, I couldn’t spend every moment with my son. It still haunts me: wondering and hoping he knew how much we love him. His stats would improve immediately at my touch; I have to be satisfied with that.
It sounds like he did know Shauna — I believe those stats. I understand your feelings about not wanting to neglect your older child and how you are now second-guessing yourself (I deal with the regret of spending my child’s last morning doing other things, some of the time, rather than just holding her hand).
I agree with your third sentence — profoundly.
It was a year ago, cancer took my bestfriend. If I had knew then what I know now, I would’ve spent more time with her too 😦
So sorry about that ameeeel (counting those “e”s!). I think we (and our docs) were expecting more time with our gorgeous Natasha. I’m glad I got the chance to tell my daughter that I loved her. Hope you got the chance to say the same thing to your best friend.
Heartbreaking, beautiful. This will stay with you forever as my last day with my son who died of cancer at the age of 12 this June. It is good that you were able to say I love you to her. You probably told her again and again ever since. Thanks for sharing. Ilona (Chris’ mom)
https://www.facebook.com/ChrisLantosFoundation
Ilona, I continue to tell my Natasha every day that I love her.
Thanks for the Facebook link. I will be sure to look at it to find out about your Chris. I’m so sorry that you lost your son.
This was beautiful and heart-wrenching to read. It is so clear that Natasha felt your love, without a doubt. Thank you for sharing your story. I am sad to say that I too lost a child to cancer. My son Caleb had Burkitt’s lymphoma, which is considered a “good” diagnosis – we thought he’d be better and back in school by fall… but the cancer returned and then he had lesions in his brain, and after getting high dose chemo and radiation to fight it, he had a fungal infection. We were, at that point, worried about his prognosis, so were very present and loving, but when he did die it was very unexpected – the infection led him to suddenly bleed to death. He died September 3… not only did he not go back to school, he didn’t even live to the first day of the school year.
Words don’t usually evade me, but they do now … Thinking of you, thinking of Caleb and sending love and hugs.
Thank you. I am only comforted that although the moment of his death was highly traumatic for *us*, thank G-d he didn’t have to know or be afraid. He “didn’t feel well,” I helped him into bed, and then he lost consciousness before all the horror of what was happening became clear. For that I am forever grateful – his last waking moments were with us, and without fear. Now I just don’t understand how I’m supposed to go through life without him… as I’m sure you probably know, of course.
May I ask, how old is your other daughter? My older son is almost 9… he and Caleb were 22 months apart.
My younger daughter is a few months older than your older son, Ellen. Send me an e-mail if you want to “talk” privately (suzannexs@yahoo.com). Your second sentence is very comforting.
I know this post is not recent, but I wanted to say that I’m so sorry for your loss.
Thank you, Starbursteyes (no, not a recent post, but the grief is still very raw).
I am so sorry for the loss of your sweet Natasha. The picture of you two together, the expression of pure love on your face…. There is no doubt she knew how much she IS loved.
She IS loved. Thank you, Crystal.
you write so beautifully and your love is so kind and full and rich and soft and fierce .. I am so touched!
Thank you SO much, Lori!
Your Natasha is beautiful with striking, sparkling eyes and a gorgeous smile. I saw your post on HuffPo last night and I read and re-read every one of your posts on your site. I’m profoundly touched and so deeply sorry for what you and your family have been through, and what you will go through. Natasha and Marissa are so lucky to have you as a mom. Best wishes from the Bay Area.
RS. Thank you. I so miss my Natasha’s “sparking eyes and gorgeous smile”! Your last-bit-one sentence is very kind.
I’m crying even more now , I lost my 14 year old son to drowning ,its was 7-17-14..I still can’t believe it. his name IS Nathaniel…..He was perfect and so many people loved him. So handsome and muscular. My pride and joy. My second born son. Your daughter,Natasha would of been 13 now? She is so beautiful..really…those eyes tell her story. A few weeks before he died the pics he took were so different, he had a big ol smile every time , and he had a sense of calmness, and was just so different…he had asthma since he was 2…his older brother is 17 and tried to save him while they tried to swim to shore when their boat capsized..he wasn’t found but 75 ft from shore…the shore I visoted so many times with his sisters..that lake was my lake..I have about a hundred pics of that exact spot ..so many sunsets ..I don’t go there anymore..I do go to the other side of the lake aynd feed a special duck named aflac(my son used to feed him and thought he was cool) I have 3 other children but that doesn’t matter…I’m still allowed to mourn for my son, Nathaniel and you your daughyer Natasha! I love when people say his name too! Thanl you for sharing your story…children with cancer touch my heart deeply..I hope to continue to follow you,
Thanks for reading, Bridget. My Natasha is/would have been 14, too, like your Nathaniel. Thank you for saying she is beautiful — of course, I think so, too. There is no good way to lose a child, but I think an accident must be harder to accept and there must be a desperate “if only he’d ..” in dealing with your grief. I don’t know if there is any comfort in knowing that Nathaniel’s last years in this world were not compromised by disease and dread. I love that your last pictures show him content and smiling.
She knew