A year ago Thursday, May 14 was the one-year anniversary of when we brought Myra home from what we thought was her last round of heavy treatment. We were elated to jump into the summer with a 17-month old who would get to take less chemo, have fewer side effects, and spend less time in the hospital and more time with her twin brother and big sister. I cried most of Friday as I thought about how much we miss her smiles, and funny little alto voice, her crinkled up nose when she would laugh, and her hugs and sweet soft little head. It is especially devastating that we thought we were in the clear when only seven weeks later, she would be diagnosed with relapsed and even more aggressive leukemia.

I doubt many people were thinking as they fell asleep last night or as they woke up today that May 16 is six months since our sweet Myra Joy died. A new worry, and reason to take our corners and fight, has taken over our lives, and talk of Myra's life has faded as the passion of coronavirus has increased. Selfishly, I would like for the world to stop turning and for everyone think about her for a few minutes, but realistically, many, many people have lost loved ones tragically and suddenly in the past few months. We're not the only ones grieving, but sometimes it feels like we're alone. One of my beloved uncles died last Saturday (not from covid-19), and I can imagine how lonely my aunt, their children, and grandchildren feel having to grieve and celebrate with an abbreviated service and family-only gathering where no one can touch each other. My mom wasn't even able to travel to attend the funeral of her oldest sibling.

We appreciate the people who continue to reach out to talk about Myra, who say her name, ask what our family is doing to cope, etc. For those who don't or can't, we know she wasn't yours and that the stress of keeping an income, insurance, and security for your families is your top priority. We're in the same boat, just with the added grief of not having our precious daughter here to bring light into our lives any longer.

Yesterday morning we spotted a ladybug on the inside of the window screen in our play area. We were excited that it was basically in our house, and Norah just knew it was Myra who came for a visit. In the hospital, the nurses and techs would draw ladybugs on the window of her room, and one of our sweet nurses called her LoveBug, so we've always thought ladybugs were Myra's spirit insect. We've even had ladybugs hop onto the side of the stroller to ride along next to Collin while we walk the past few months. Norah was carrying her beloved "Myra LoveBug Deal" (as she named it) through the yard a bit later and sat her down for a moment. LoveBug disappeared soon after, and Norah was inconsolable for almost an hour. "What if I never see her again, Mommy? What if she gets hurt? I don't want her to die! I never gave her one last pat to let her know how much I love her!"

My heart broke as I watched my 5-year-old experience deep grief regarding the loss of her sister as she transferred her feelings to the loss of her ladybug. I could only hold her and cry with her and reassure her that, no matter what, Myra LoveBug Deal would be ok and that, eventually, Norah might be ok too. This in the midst of social isolation from everyone and with her dad working long, arduous hours at a store to sell housewares to people who have no idea the depth of his suffering, and quite honestly, seem not to care about anyone but themselves. He comes home completely tapped out from endless hours of manual labor and still gives Norah, Collin, and me everything he can, but this time we thought we'd spend grieving and celebrating Myra's life has turned into something quite different.

It's not in my nature to write negative, cynical updates, but this virus and subsequent isolation, has cast a pallor over all our lives, and like many of you, I'm struggling to figure out how to make life fun, educational, and engaging for my living children. It's tough to not get caught up in what's not going right, but I assure you that we still count our blessings daily. We got to intimately know and love the most spirited and beautiful baby girl for almost two years, and we have the unique joy of surrounding ourselves with her favorite toys and books for the rest of our lives. Kenneth still has a job, we still have medical insurance, the kids are too little for actual school so I don't have the added stress of having had to become a home-schooler, and we have a small crew of amazing friends who touch base daily and weekly and never let us forget how loved Myra was and how lucky they felt to know her personally or even just through CaringBridge. Many of Myra's medical care workers still reach out to us regularly, and that is the greatest gift when she could have just been another patient in a hospital full of kids with cancer.

The silver lining of this all is that Kenneth and I have a chance to recapture some of the time with Norah and Collin that we lost while our time and energy was devoted to Myra and hospital life. We have no regrets and would never change the decisions we made to take care of Myra, but after losing her and suddenly being home without her, we realized how much we had missed out on the big two growing up during those 15 months of treatment. December through early March was back to business as usual, busy lives, school schedules, work schedules, and social obligations (mostly to keep ourselves distracted from our heartache). March 8 we returned home from a beautiful and healing weekend at Camp Sol, a grief camp for families who have lost a child, and then within a week went into lockdown at home to keep ourselves and our community safe from the spread of covid-19. As much as these days are long and mentally and physically taxing, I am grateful for them and the time getting to know my babies better. I dread the return to normalcy and busy schedules and sports and dance and swimming lessons and all the things we Americans have built around ourselves to stay busy and make sure our kids are entertained and good at something by the time they go off to college. I lost a child, so the idea of sending my other two out into the world away from me isn't something I long for.

As we begin to hit the painful anniversaries and milestones of Myra's treatments, relapse and death, our family has an additional reminder that nothing is really within our control. As Myra's life was fading and her naps and nights and painful moments in between were spent nestled on me, the life of her unexpected little brother was just beginning within me. The two siblings who will never meet, and the little brother who will know his sister only through photos, videos, and stories, is giving us something hopeful to dream about and anticipate. Myra was a little sister, a twin sister, and unbeknownst to us, a big sister all during her perfect, brief life. We're expecting Baby Boy Deal in mid- to late-July, and we know his arrival will be bittersweet as we mourn that Myra isn't here to meet him but celebrate that we have been blessed beyond measure to welcome another little one into our family.

Nothing will ever replace Myra or our love for her, and it seems fitting that on the 6-month mark of losing her, it is pouring down rain in Dallas. She loved the rain. She rarely got to play in it, since it was dangerous for her to be outside during treatment, and she was usually in the hospital or had her port accessed (needle inserted), preventing her from getting wet, but we watched it through the windows, we read and sang about it, and it was one of her favorite signs and words to say. It makes me miss her more than I thought possible.

If you think about it, say a little prayer for Myra and our family and the health of our new little one as we attempt to make it through one of the many difficult days we'll experience after losing Myra. We continue to think of you all as you endure the pandemic and its devastating effects on health and families' security and resources.