Why losing you made me a better mommy (Dear Alyx)

For Jackie

Dear Alyx,

When we met, everything about you seemed wrong.  Your sweet, sharp-featured face and tiny frame were completely inappropriate for your gravel voice and rakish sense of humor. You looked like a teenager, yet composed yourself like a gentleman and worked like a seasoned bartender. I liked you instantly, and when I heard they were sending you to our restaurant to work some shifts I was overjoyed. Our tight-knit group is tough to break into, and although you had my wing to protect you it was unnecessary--you were a chameleon, a sneaky thief who stole our hearts while we were busy laughing with you.

While I was away having my baby, you successfully acted as my stand-in, a friendly face for my regular customers, dutifully answering their questions about me and my baby (even showing pictures on a few occasions). I saw you as my protege, although I can't take credit for having taught you a damn thing. Before I left I had proudly introduced you to skeptical faces ("How old is he? What's wrong with his voice?") who soon came to adore you as much as I did. You made work fun! Impossible! 

Monday night I was nursing the baby when Jane called me from the restaurant and told me that you were in the hospital. She filled me in on what she knew, which wasn't much. I hung up the phone and stared at the wall as the baby ate, her tiny hand clasped around my index finger. When Andy came home I had to tell him, and that's when the tears started. I could only think about your mom, and a terrifying fear gripped me. I was faced with the horrifying realization that my love isn't enough to protect my daughter. No matter how tightly she's wrapped in my arms, no matter how hard I'm loving her, the hand of fate is cunning.

The next night I came to see you in the hospital. I was in a group of people, and your mom made a beeline right to me. She thanked me for being there, which I waved off. She hugged me tight and pulled back to look me in the face, her hands gripping my arms. She said, "This has to be extra hard for you with a new baby." I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded slowly, afraid to say a word. "You go home," she told me. "You go home and hug that baby, hard, until she tells you to let go, and then you hug her again." 

I was astounded. This tiny woman in her Chucks and hipster glasses, whose son was fighting for his life down the hall, was comforting me. Without tears, without irony, she was offering loving words of advice only a mother can give. "Love that baby with everything you have." I smiled, and nodded, and I promised to do just that. 

The next day, when I heard they had decided to take you off life support, I made my way back to the hospital. The waiting area was busy with hugs and tears, everyone moving under a hanging sadness punctuated with a secret sigh of relief. Jordan came with me to see you, and I was glad for his arm around me. I held your hand as I said goodbye, staring intently into a face that didn't belong to you. I focused on your tattoos, and I ran my fingers through your impossibly full hair. I told Jordan that we were lucky to have known you, and he agreed. I really, really hope you heard me.

Before I left I got to spend a few minutes with your mom, and I felt really honored that she chose to sit with me. We talked about you, of course, and laughed about what you'd have been thinking. "What Would Alyx Say?" was her mantra, your humor comforting her when she needed you the most. As she left me she thanked me for making her laugh, still smiling as she made her way through the thick crowd.

Our time together was too short, but you left a profound impact on me. I'll miss your tight hugs and your ridiculous voice, your hilarious asides and your perfect quips. Because of you I'll hug my baby girl tighter, I'll kiss her more often, and I'll never miss an opportunity to tell her how perfect or how loved she is. Our friendship made me a better mommy, and I'll be forever grateful for that.

Thanks for the love, and for the laughs. I'll never, ever forget you.

With Love,

Liz