Remembering

Sometimes, I will be blindsided by a sudden memory of Izzy. Sometimes it will be of her birth or our brief time together, and while those memories make me a little melancholy, nothing is quite like being jolted by a memory of her death.
A 2 year old girl died in a fire today. When I heard that she had died, I was immediately, deeply sad. Then I was struck by an image of Izzy in her hospital bed after she had been intubated, but before they moved in the big bed so we could lay with her. There was no good place to touch her because she was so covered in tubes and wires. I wanted to pick her up and pat her back and smell the crook of her neck, but I couldn't. That image stayed with me all day today.
Most of the time, I wish I could cut those images out of my mind and never think of them. I wish I could only remember her as she was before May 19th. But then again, I only have 21 days of memories and those were given to me for a reason. I hold on to those memories, and keep them in a sacred place, because they are all I have, and I don't get to make any more.
It used to be that the one thing I was most afraid of was dying. I never told anyone this, but I was terrified of dying. I would think about all the things I would miss, my girls, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren, the San Diego Chargers winning the Super Bowl. No more. I am now terrified of losing my memory. Losing that means I lose everything that is important to me. I lose the day I met my husband while trying to pick up his friend at the bar. I lose our first date when I really wanted to not go, but figured I could at least get a great dinner, and then spent the whole evening with him, and every day since. I lose the day Madeline Elaine was born, when I knew I had been waiting my whole life to be a mom. I lose the day Abigail Kathleen was born, when I discovered that it is possible for your heart to keep growing. I lose the day Isabelle Christine was born when I had to admit that my husband was right, our family was not yet complete. I lose the day Isabelle Christine died. The day that we spent telling her that she was the bravest girl we had ever known, that she had been such a fighter, and that we were prouder than 2 parents could be, and we promised her that we would all be together again.
I have found that remembering the painful, heart-breaking things, reminds you that all the other memories you have, are precious, and meant to be taken out and enjoyed often. If we don't have any valleys to compare them to, the heights really don't seem all that high.