The Last Picture I Ever Took

Here you are. February 28th. Around 7:30 PM. Less than 10 hours before your death.

You had just had a blow out while we were playing, I had to act fast. I went to get the tub ready and you were all about rolling across the room to follow me like a silly girl. I had to get this picture. ❤️ I bathed you that night. I rubbed and massaged you with night time lavender lotion. I trimmed your nails. I changed you into a gray and pink long-sleeved onesie and your pink sleeper and we sat on the couch, turned on basketball, and you laid against me to eat, tired.

I wonder if you knew what was happening? If you knew your brain was being infiltrated by killer immune cells and damaged? If you were worried? If you felt any anxiety or had any fears? Did you know you were slowly dying?

I hadn't a clue. I thought you were teething. As mothers, we're supposed to have that "instinct". There is no "instinct" that tells you your child is about to die. I held you in my arms that night, against my breasts, your cheeks so warm, until you fell into a deep sleep, your breaths shallow.

Then I laid you down for the last time. That was the last time I held you, fed you, smelled you, kissed you... alive.

This picture was the last picture I took of you... alive.

If I had just skipped that appointment, you'd still be... alive 💔

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