And when you go through the valley
And the shadow comes down from the hill
If morning never comes to be
Be still, be still, be still
On February 21st of 2016, Addison Adrienne Montgomery-Grey died peacefully in her sleep, taking her last breath in my arms.
I don't remember much from that night; I remember waking up and feeling that she'd started to breathe funny, raspy almost. And I knew, in the moment I didn't want to think about it, but I knew. I pulled her close for the last time, and I kissed her living lips for the last time. I whispered in her ear that I loved her, and she heard me for the last time.
Her body went limp, but I couldn't bring myself to hit the call button to get the nurses in. She'd been fighting a long time, it had been a while since I'd seen her so at peace. So, I sat with her in my arms, and I studied her peaceful face, free of pain and free of sickness. I wanted to memorize every single detail, every last one, because this was the last moment I'd ever have with her. I didn't want to forget.
I ran my fingers over her skin, willing them to remember what she felt like, praying to whatever God there was that I'd never forget what the love of my life felt like upon my fingertips.
And it hit me; all in one second, all in one motion. She was gone, forever, I'd never get her back. This was it; it was over. I'd never kiss her again, or hold her hand, or tell her I loved her. My final goodbye was said at 3:42 am, while my mind was barely coherent and my body was still half asleep.
I hit the call button.
Nothing was harder than holding her while she died; that was and would forever be the hardest moment of my life. Holding her body and feeling as the life left her loving body, feeling as everything that made her, her, ceased to exist, it killed me. She left, and I knew she didn't go alone, because a piece of me went with her. A piece of me would always be with her.
It was hard. She went from everything to nothing in an instant; and my world was crumbling around me. She wasn't a person anymore, and my mind found that hard to comprehend.
But telling my children was a close second.
I sat them down, a three year old and a five year old, and I gently had to explain to them that Mama wasn't coming home. She was gone now, and we'd never get her back.
"But why?" Lila asked, confused "where did she go?" Her little face was close to tears, and I didn't know what to say. What was I supposed to say, when I barely understood the situation myself?
"She was sick, remember? Mama got sick and she didn't get better. She went to sleep last night and she never woke up" I struggled to find words and keep my calm composure.
"Mama won't come home?" Noah asked me, devastated.
"No honey, Mama isn't coming home"
I held them both in my lap, as they cried into my shirt and screamed for their Mama. They didn't understand how death worked; how could they when they were so little? All they knew was Mama wasn't coming back, and that wasn't something they liked hearing.
I rubbed their tiny backs and kissed their little foreheads and wiped their tears away from their faces. Eventually, when they'd cried themselves out and fell asleep, I tucked them into my bed on what was my side, before slipping into Addison's side myself.
I didn't change the sheets since she'd been in the hospital, I'd didn't sleep at home so I didn't see the need to. I spent every night at the hospital, holding her as we slept.
I buried my nose into her pillow, and I encased my senses in her. The bed was warm, it smelled of her, and if I closed my eyes hard enough, it almost felt like she was still here, still in my arms, still alive.
Almost, but not quite.
