I feel unsuitable to be the one writing this. You weren’t my daughter, we never even met. I met you after you were gone.
I’m not one to believe in the afterlife. I have a hard time trying to understand that part of our universe. The one that is so much bigger than all of us. I can tell you though, I catch myself talking to you every now and again. Those days I’m in the lineup by myself watching the sun rise over the ocean realizing how good I have it. I believe that, in those moments whenever you feel that something is bigger than yourself; there is meaning. Whether it’s God or just my mind playing tricks on me, I accept its comfort in an unfair life.
I remember how we met. I found myself surrounded by hundreds of people with your parents and baby brother in the middle of us. Somehow, whether we knew you before you died or not; we found ourselves in a paddle out ceremony listening to your father pour his heart out. As your mother cry to the heavens and your brother threw flowers to the sky in your name, it seemed for a moment we all knew you. A collective bleeding heart of over three hundred. I was right next to your dad. It’s hard being next to someone you barely know and watch them grieve in the most personal, intimate and painful way. I watched as he squeezed the life out of the flower lei he wore for you. His heart was in so much pain. His hand lifted in the air and he called your name with every breath left inside him. It was as if he tried to reach for you one last time.
It was in that moment I knew you.
Your parents let us in. As they said goodbye in front of us all I could feel you were there, giving your father the strength to stand. They knew you had to go. One more moment with you; just one more part of you to have was the simplest request; but not a single one of us could offer it in return. The day we met was the most helpless moment I have since I put my hand on my father’s shoulder as he said goodbye to his dad. What I would have done to take away the pain from your parents hearts, to warm their soul, to ease their mind.
That’s not how it works though is it Molly? Maybe you knew that the whole time.
Little Miss Molly, the five year old who fought lymphoma with all she had.
It’s been over a year since you died. Since then we have had Molly bbq’s, Molly pizza’s, Molly stickers and snowboard jams. We’ve had Molly get-togethers, raffles, t-shirts, websites, Bruins hockey games and just about anything we can put your name on. At times it seems a little inappropriate, at times it feels like we are just picking up the torch and continuing the fight for you. “Kicking cooties butt” is what I think your phrase was? We are a community now, a team and a family. We know how much fighting cancer meant to you and your family. While not one of us can understand the pain you all went through and continue to cope with, we know your name will carry on, and with it all the heart of your fight. The difference one person can make is so much clearer now.
There are moments in life that stop you dead in your tracks and change your course forever. Saying goodbye to you with your family was one of those moments for me. It was the day I realized how delicate our time is. It was the day a lot of us realized that. None of us are exempt from death. We never know when our time is but rest assured it is coming. Excuse me for stating the obvious Molly. I know we all understand our time better when others pass away and maybe it’s cliché to say but important regardless. “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.”
You were only five years old and dealt with the pains of dying from cancer. Five years old. You never had the chance to smash your father’s bumper while texting, have your first kiss, fail a big exam. You never got the chance to steal a boy’s heart, bitch about how lame small town life is, nor sit at the coffee shop blowing your mornings talking about nothing. At five years old you were battling rounds of chemotherapy. Some days you rode your bike and went to school, some days you spent in a hospital bed loving your parents while they prepared to say goodbye to you over and over again. At five years old you and your family were enduring more pain than I have in 31 years.
I felt so unworthy of this life reading your father’s care page updates; I sometimes caught myself feeling thankful it wasn’t happening to me. Grateful – that I was an outsider. It was those moments of selfish human error that helped me understand how easily it could be me in Buck and Meg’s shoes. I remember feeling worthless when I watched how strong your father was, as if I could never be strong enough to handle the same pain. I remember looking around at all the people mourning you and feeling my life wasn’t as valuable and would never be remembered the same. It was your father however that taught me just this morning that you stand up and fight when your back is against the wall. Pain is part of being alive, it’s what shapes who we are and yes we are all strong enough. It was your parents who both reminded us how valuable we all are and there is no moment to late to make a change for the better, to make our story worth remembering.
I remember feeling a yearning for deeper love. The day you died I stood next to the girl I’ve fallen for, a group of close friends and a lot of people who have become my friends because of you. I knew then that the people in my life were all that truly mattered. Regardless of how much we all get on each other’s nerves, this community is our community. It’s our duty to look after each other and remember that at any moment we could lose each other. Your parents showed me that and so did you. Your parents would have given anything to hold you one more day. We have nothing that is as valuable as each other. I never want to regret not spending enough time. There is nothing as important as one moment more. I see that now.
God, I can’t write this without sounding conventional. It’s hard to explain. I’m writing to a friend’s passed daughter. I know your dad is enjoying me squirming right now. I hate talking about this stuff sometimes. I hate thinking about saying goodbye to my parents one day, saying goodbye to the loved ones in my life as those days come, feeling vulnerable, crying, understanding how damn human I am. I write this and when I think of you I think of my own life, how much I love my nephews, my girlfriend, my best friend…. how the tears just build thinking about if I had to go through with them what your parents went through with you. I hope I’ve done enough before my time is gone. I hope I give it everything I’ve got before I have to hope for one more day.
Buck, Meg…I am so sorry. I know that means so little but I don’t have the words to offer that would ever comfort you. I know none of us can bring back your little girl.
Your parents still feel you Molly. Your dad feels you in the car next to him on the way to work. Your mom can still hear your voice. They know you’re home now, and they know you’re watching over them as well. Kieran is doing well, he misses his sister but is growing stronger every day. I know… he stood up to me and my Yankees hat this morning… like father like son. Watch over them Molly. Life’s short and no doubt you will all be reunited again one day but right now keep watching over them. We are all covered in your memory. Watch over all of us. Keep us reminded how lucky we all are to have one another. Remind us how special our home is. Remind me every time the salt water runs over my surfboard that life is happening in that moment.
Thank you, Molly Rowlee. Thank you for bringing us together. Thank you, Buck and Meg for sharing your baby girl with all of us.
If you ever wonder the difference one person can make, just think about the five year old girl who fought lymphoma with everything she had.
“To know you’re never really far, to know you’re never really gone”
We miss you Molly.
Brian Nevins
