Today I went back to the hospital where my darling daughter eventually died from her act of suicide. She was in the intensive care unit of the children's hospital. A nurse used to bring me cups of instant coffee from the staff room when I walked the quiet corridor, filled with little incubators of tiny babies. My 'baby' at 11, the eldest on the ward.
I told them I would bring them a coffee machine for the parents, as a hot cup was a small comfort during to me in those awful wee hours. To fulfill my promise, I returned today. I delivered a coffee machine with some nice mugs for the little kitchen where I had drunk so many awful cups of instant coffee, waiting. I walked the corridor. I looked in at her 'room'. I stopped by the door of the operating theater where I said my last goodbye, before the organ retrieval operation and I hugged one of her nurses who spent some of those four painful days with us.
I also spent three hours talking with a social worker there, who I only met for the first time today. I shared my girl's story and she told me of her son's ongoing battle with anxiety and self harm. We hope that we can collaborate on a project for bereaved children in the near future.
I came home with a banging headache and I feel totally emotionally spent. But I am proud of myself for my small feat and I hope my little girl is proud of me too.
This post originally appeared on the Alliance of Hope Forum and was reprinted with the permission of the author.