Thanking, Loving, Feeling My Daughter

I wrote this last night and read it today at our Celebration of Hope and Love in memory of Tikva:

We’ve been in the mountains for the last week, just the three of us. I’ve spent most of the time listening to the stillness of only the soft wind, gently lapping waves against the shores of Lake Almanor, and crickets at night. Interrupted only by Dahlia’s sweet voice telling me about the great adventures of Lava Girl or various princesses of the day, or asking questions about Tikva, her sister who is with God.

In body, it has been the three of us – Dahlia, Dave and me. In spirit, we have been joined by Tikva. I have felt Tikva so close – in the breeze touching my face, in the milkweed seeds floating by, in the birds and the bats flying overhead, in the light of the sun shining against and through the tops of pine trees. Deep inside my heart. She is so close.

I have cried this week more than I have cried in years. I’ve cried tears I never thought I would cry – for the loss of my daughter. I have wondered if I will ever stop crying. Even while I feel Tikva so close, I grieve for her loss. For the loss of my Baby Girl. For the loss of all that didn’t get to be. For the loss of all that won’t get to be.

And each time I cried this week, I would look up and another milkweed seed would be floating playfully by. “There’s Tikva,” I would say to Dave and Dahlia.

Two questions have occupied my thoughts this past week…

The first question:

If I had been told, on the day Tikva was born, that she would live for just 8 weeks and 2 days, would I have loved her any less deeply, any less completely? No. Because her fragility was always so vivid – because it was something we knew since long before she was born – there was no way to avoid the possibility that she might live just a short time. In fact, we didn’t even know if she would survive the day of her birth.

And yet I did love her completely, deeply, purely. I loved her the most that it is possible to love. I always will. I loved her because there was no guarantee that I would have tomorrow to love her more. I could not have done it any other way. This is unconditional love. This is Tikva’s gift to me. And in this way I was able to give her the love of a lifetime – a lifetime’s worth of love. Complete love. Completely.

The second question:

And what about those moments of hope in Tikva’s lifetime? What happens to those now that I know her body didn’t survive? What happens to the day she was born smoothly and easily stabilized? The day of her smooth and successful surgery? The day she was extubated? The delicious moments I held her as she slept in my arms? The first time she got to have my milk through a tube? The days she was doing so well and making such progress that her doctors talked about our bringing her home?

What happens to those moments of hope? What happens to that hope now?

It is still there. Those moments are Tikva’s gift. That joy remains. It is forever here as pure energy all around us.

That hope is what kept me going – all the way from January 23rd in Jerusalem. That hope is what allowed me to trust Tikva’s journey and help her in its unfolding. It is impossible to exist without hope – that hope is what gave me such profound guidance and meaning. Such PURPOSE.

MY TIVKA GAVE ME PURPOSE.

She still does. Now my purpose is a little less apparent, less obvious, but it is still there:

To love completely.
To be my most pure and complete self.
Deeply connected to God.
In every experience.
In every relationship.
In every moment.
In every interaction.

The day after Tikva departed, I wrote this on my blog:

I am forever changed because of you, my Sweet Tikva.
Changed in a way I can't really explain.
Changed in an irreversible way.
Changed in a way I needed to be changed.
I am a stronger, wiser, more humble, more patient, more grateful and more loving soul because of you, my Tikva.


I will hold you in my heart forever, and I trust that eventually my heart will hurt a little less every day.
I will feel you in every breath of wind that touches my skin.
I will remember you as I breathe deeply my own breaths.
I will lean on you, remember your might and your presence, when life feels hard.
I will share your story with everyone I meet.
You will always continue to touch hearts and lives as you have already.
I promise you this.

I love you, Tikva Ahava.
I love you as my gift to forever lift your spirit into the wind.

Those wispy milkweed seeds that float by look like they are having fun, carefree and light. Tikva’s spirit is now free, forever expanding, boundless and unhindered by the physical. Although I still cry many times a day, all I have to do to feel Tikva now is take a very deep breath. And she is there, around and within me.

Two more things:

First, a special thank you to our friends at UCSF. You never know where on life’s journey you are going to make some very special friends, and I can’t say I expected that it would be in the ICN. But looking back now it doesn’t surprise me at all. With Tikva’s nurses and doctors and all the others who cared for her, we shared in loving and caring for our daughter. We shared unconditional love – love no matter what, love that is given without needing to have it reciprocated. We shared hope – for it is hope that drives every inch of that vast hospital and school. We shared an intimacy and vulnerability that brings you close really quickly. We shared such incredible and mutual respect. Thank you for caring so completely for Tikva, and for loving her.

And finally, my deepest gratitude to all of you – our entire community – for holding Tikva. Thank you for holding our family in so many ways. Furnishing our home, bringing us meals, sharing your hopes and visions, sending us loving emails, praying from the deepest parts of your souls, planting trees in Tikva’s memory, loving both of our girls so deeply.

Thank you for believing in hope and in love with us.

Your faith helps Tikva’s mighty spirit to soar.