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  • Catie Clobes

The Beginning of the End.

There is no relief in the thought of "just get through today" when you've lost a child. None. Yesterday felt horrible because I knew today was coming. Today feels awful because I feel like I could have somehow changed the outcome of my daughter's life had I done something different. Tomorrow will feel terrible because it's just leading up to what will have been the worst day of my life. I'm really not sure what I am more afraid of, the worst day of my life, or the weeks and months to follow because that is when I felt the worst pain I have ever felt. And after that, I'm just living my life in sadness and getting farther away from when you were alive, and we were happy. Every day is really just torture because there is no light at the end of the tunnel. My child is gone from this Earth. Forever.


February 27th, 2019, it was a sunny day in Minnesota, just like today. I bundled Evee in her snowsuit and buckled her into her car seat. She was in a really good mood that day, like every day. We stopped at the store and I got her a bacon-shaped teething toy, and a bunch of baby food. Then we headed over to the clinic for her 1 PM "well child" check-up. I remember we got out of the car and I dropped her new "lamb hat" into the mud. At that time, THAT was the low of my day.


The nurse was kind. She couldn't believe how much Evee was talking to her. Evee was squaking away, playful little screams, throwing her hands in the air as she was on my lap. She had the nurse and pediatrician laughing. They couldn't get a word in. Evee was completely checked out from head to toe. Seemingly flawless in health. The pediatrician asked me if we were doing shots today, and I just nodded my head yes with a smile. The nurse came back in, and couldn't name off all the shots she would be receiving, she had to look them up to be able to tell me. That should have been a red flag but I had no idea. I was proud of my happy, healthy, vocal baby I was laying down onto the scratchy, white papered clinic bed. It felt like an accomplishment, getting this visit over with, "successfully". I never received a piece of paper or a pamphlet. The nurse jokingly told me she felt bad giving the shots to such a happy baby, she didn't want to see her cry.


I held my daughter down. The nurse injected a shot to each leg. My daughter screamed and after the band-aids were quickly put on, I scooped her up and held her tight, singing to her. A couple minutes later she was done crying. We packed up, and went home. About 4 hours later, Evee developed a sand-paper like rash on her cheeks. I thought she was teething. I gave her the cold bacon-teething toy but she really didn't want anything to do with it.


That sand-paper like rash on her cheeks never went away...


...and what I didn't realize in that clinic a year ago today, was that those 2 shots were the beginning to the end of my daughter's life.




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