Early one spring, our whole family came down with the flu. It was a horrible flu. Many of us were sick. I was sick and dizzy. But I had no reason to fear the flu. Flu was just something you get over, like a bad cold. Goodness knows, we had had the flu before. I had, after all, been a mother for nineteen years by then. I knew to watch for sore throats. I was very much afraid of strep throat, because I knew it could be dangerous. But no one had a sore throat. I looked down the throats of those who couldn't tell me, with a flashlight and tongue depressor, to be sure. It was before flu shots were available. I knew that flu was something that really couldn't be helped, except by bed-rest, liquids, and love. So, as usual, I put everyone to bed for a nap one afternoon, like I did every day when we were all sick, and lay down myself. The older children read books, or watched TV softly in the family room. Later, I got up, and checked on everyone, giving drinks of 7-up.

But when I got to Misty's pretty orange crib, to see if she was awake yet, I found to my utter and devastating horror, that she had left us, and gone on to be in the presence of God. At first I could not believe it. I grabbed Joshua's stethoscope, and checked, and no, there was no heartbeat. No breaths. She was truly gone. I burst into tears, and howled and cried. Then I called the doctor, telling him, and asking how this could be, but of course I couldn’t find out right away. The doctor said it was surprising she had lived as long as she had, with her particular disability, and took care of calling the coroner. He told me to call the funeral home when we felt it was time. He said to take as much time as we needed. Misty had been my daughter for eight years.

In time, I was told that the flu virus had gone to her heart. That sometimes this happens, and it can happen very quickly. That children like Misty just don't have the "same hold on life" that the rest of us have. There was nothing we could have done, and it was no one's fault.

But my Misty was gone. All those years of trying to get her to know us. And all those years of success!

Nevertheless, the years were NOT lost. My beautiful princess DID know a mother's love; a family's love. She DID know joy. And I WILL see her whole and well and perfect in Heaven where I will have her back, and never lose her again. I'll know her in a new way. She'll be able to talk to us, sing, eat, run, and play. I'll be her mommy always, and we'll be her family always.

I dressed her at the funeral home, put her stuffed animals in with her, and took pictures. I brought the whole family to see her once again, and talk about how perfect she would be when we saw her in Heaven. I had comforted everyone, hugging, and kissing away their tears. Everyone was still sick. It was a most miserable time. But I couldn't say good-bye yet. I hadn't had any time with her alone yet. It was just too sudden. My giggly little girl was gone. My mind could not absorb it.

So I asked for some time at the cemetery alone. I had to have time with Misty by myself. And I wanted it to be outside in privacy, with the spring wind blowing, and the grass beneath my feet. Like all the times in nature we had enjoyed together. I didn't want it to be in the stifling, silent funeral home, where my sobs could be heard.

Her little pink casket had a velveteen kind of fuzz all over it, and I spent a long time alone, with everyone else at home, sitting in the grass, hugging her casket, laying my head on it, and asking God for strength and comfort, for all of us. I thanked Him for the honor of having been her mother for eight years.

Eight years of loving and learning and laughing.

I sat stroking the velveteen, as I used to stroke her hair. It was so hard to accept that my little daughter lay within, and I cried and cried, and tried to figure out how to cope with my dreadful loss. Then, in time for the grave side service, I wiped my eyes, went home, and got the family, except for the very youngest ones. They stayed at home with a babysitter. The rest of us came, and we listened to our pastor's kind words. I was so stunned, I barely remember them. But I will always appreciate him, and his caring.

Her little pink casket was lowered into the ground. We stayed until the grass was rolled over the top again, and the vase put into the ground beside where her gravestone would be placed, as soon as it was made.

Then, leaving pink and white flowers all over the ground, beneath the green canopy, and a pink ribbon with her name on it in gold letters, Misty Angelita, we climbed solemnly back into our van, and went home, one child less.

Misty, I miss you so much it hurts yet, after all these years. But I am your mommy still. And I wouldn't have missed a bit of it.