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When I was a freshman in high school, I took an introductory journalism course. That spring, a girl I’d known from my neighborhood went with the Heights instrumental music program on a trip to Asia, where she contracted a rare lung disease, which landed her in a coma upon her return home. She died on her sixteenth birthday. I wasn’t yet experienced enough to be on the official newspaper staff, but this girl and I had lived on the same street and had gone to the same school since our earliest elementary days, so when nobody stepped forward to write the article on her life, I did.

I sat in on the counseling sessions the school had set up for her friends, furiously scribbling down the conversations between her closest friends and her boyfriend. Then, accompanied by my mom because I must have been nervous, I walked over to her family’s house and sat at a picnic table in the sideyard to interview her parents and her younger brother. It was, to say the least, a fairly intense experience for a 15-year old, as I dug into their grief and then had to craft a story (with a strict word count) that captured all she had been to those who loved her. I was proud of the story I submitted, even though the one that was eventually published had been sanitized and read a little more news article and little less human interest.

But the significance of that experience is not lost on me as I’ve now spent years upon years writing about darkness and sadness in a way that I hope brings a sense of light and comfort to people.

Today, I was asked to write the article for the Heights Observer on Becca Meyer, who died on Saturday, less than twelve hours after turning six.

Sometimes, in our darkest days with Austin, when we thought he might not survive, I would wonder what my life would have been like if our second baby was conceived a day earlier or a day later than Austin had been. Or even a minute earlier or a minute later. What if I’d gone to the bathroom, gotten a drink of water, fallen asleep first and this child with these specific genes never came to be? Would we have been spared our great sorrow, our worst fears, his tremendous suffering? But every time I allowed myself to think that thought, it was immediately replaced by the full and unwavering knowledge that I would take Austin, with all his physical faults and with all the suffering that we did endure and that we may have endured. I would always still choose to have had him, even if it was only for a short while.

I have to imagine, that because Becca was adopted, her parents have had a similar and yet powerfully different set of what if’s to ponder. What if there was one family ahead of them on the list? What if some other child had been born on June 6 instead of June 7 and they’d been called for that one? What if her birth mother had decided otherwise? How different would their lives be? Would they be spared the unthinkable grief they now feel?

But I know without hesitation that if they’ve ever allowed such questions to run through their minds, they are immediately replaced with two unwavering truths.

One: They would always take the joy of having known this spark of a child, the gift of having loved her and been loved by her, … for the enrichment of their own lives, they would always choose Becca.

And, more importantly, two: If the child we knew as Rebecca Alison Meyer was destined to be in this world and if it was written in her genes or in her stars that cancer would claim her life, then who better to entrust her short life to than the Meyers? Who better to surround her with love and laughter and friendship and all things princess than Kat and Eric, Carolyn and Joshua? Who better to hold her, guide her, sing to her, dance with her, kiss her and love her than the family she was given? How lucky were they to have been given the incredible honor of shaping the course of her too short life? How lucky were they to have had the opportunity to fill it with so much joy? How lucky was she?

Loving her so well and loving her so much may well be the greatest burden of their lives.  But I do not doubt that it is also their life’s greatest blessing.

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We may never get to use the word “survivor” to describe Becca Meyer. But let me tell you, that girl is surviving.

Yesterday, today, and, we certainly hope, tomorrow, she is living a life so filled with love and laughter and friendship and family that some may be rightfully envious of her. She is alive and she is thriving — running, jumping, playing and doing it all with a full-sized dose of spice and sass.

Take today, for instance. Today was Purple for Becca Meyer Day at Fairfax School. The Student Council created a long list of Spirit Days for the month of May and Braedan’s suggestion was this one. It was carefully planned for a Thursday because Becca’s at a hospital in Pittsburgh every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning. I knew that Braedan was nervous that people might not participate, or that it would only be the girls in purple, or that (worst fate of all) Becca wouldn’t notice. He wrote his own message to read over the PA system on Wednesday afternoon reminding people of the day and why it was important, closing with, “It doesn’t matter how you look because you’ll be doing something good for someone else.”

We found purple t-shirts in the bottom of my kids’ drawers and were all ready. And then Becca threw up yesterday. On her car ride back from Pittsburgh. Which could be a sign that the time had come, that the end was about to begin. As I put the kids to bed last night, I debated whether I should tell Braedan that tidbit of truth to prepare him for the possibility that she might not be at school on her very own day. But he was riding high after a super successful trumpet quartet with three of his best friends, and I was holding tight to the hope that Becca’s was just a passing sickness, some normal explanation for normal vomit with a normal outcome.

Well, she was at school today, in head to toe purple, as were many of her schoolmates. I was most impressed with the number of kids, boys and girls alike, from kindergarten through fifth grade donning that royal color. And Braedan was most pleased. And — all that really matters — Becca was most pleased. And full of spice and sass.

At dismissal time, she marched out the door arm in arm with her best friend since birth, both purpled to the hilt. They encountered a beloved teacher in our building, who had sprayed her hair purple for the day, and she pointed it out to Becca, who promptly stuck her hands on her hips and said, with a personality bigger than her poofy princess dress, “No. You. Didn’t. That’s PINK!

Today, she is surviving.

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