Gabrielle Mae Ross, October 13th, 2010 ~ June 7th, 2013

Four nights ago, at 3:00am in the morning, with both of us taking care of Gabrielle who was coming down with a cold, Amy knew. Even though it was just a cold running through the house. She wept uncontrollably.

As she mentioned in her post, that night, we decided that we could not put her through yet another horribly invasive hospital visit to get her better at (almost) all costs. Honouring Gabrielle, her life, her well-being, her integrity, her love of family close by, and her will to live, we chose to take her to Canuck Place and give her the best care possible a children's hospice can provide.

That morning, while I was just walking the boys to school, in a remarkable set of circumstances I'll abbreviate, not a block from our house there was a coyote prancing by. We don't live in the country. I haven't seen a coyote here ever before. I haven't seen a coyote anywhere in ages. Not daring to let the significance of this incident pass, I looked up what kinds of messages earlier cultures thought coyotes brought, and read: 

The Shoshoni believed the Coyote as an indication of an ending. The sighting of the Coyote was said to bring natural shifts in balance, causing an end (which, of course, simply makes way for new beginnings, and so on). Essentially, the Coyote is like a "way-maker" of new direction as it went about its symbolic role of representing the cycle of life and death in nature.

A few hours behind Amy's motherly intuition, my heart grew heavy with understanding.

Upon arriving she seemed to be thriving. So much so that a part of us almost felt sheepish for bringing her in, but we knew we were at our limit at home. I went home that night to be with the boys and Amy spent the night with Gabrielle at Canuck Place. That next morning (Thursday) Amy awoke at 6am and quietly sat in the room and listened to our little daughter breath well and deeply, despite her lungs being slightly filled with cold. Myself and the boys arrived later that day after James' school-day ended, and with almost no intentions of us all staying at Canuck Place that night (Gabby was getting better and we'd be home soon, you see), we were all having so much fun that we spent the night. Us 5 up stairs, Gabrielle on the nursing floor just below.

I-Cell is horrible and misleading. One minute these children seem so healthy, smiling smiles that light up rooms with their life, and the next they're requiring all sorts of medical help to help them stay alive. This was Friday morning – yesterday. We awoke and Gabrielle was breathing well. Me, Amy, and James came downstairs and took this video.

About an hour later Gabrielle had declined to the point that we thought we only had minutes left. Both her Grandparents rushed to Canuck Place in time to say goodbye. They did, but she hung on for the whole day ... long enough for her aunties and uncles and cousins and all sorts of people to come into her room and be with her. Really, she loved nothing more than being around people. Always watching and listening and smiling.

The whole day Amy and I took turns holding her as tightly and gently as we could. We sang to her. We thanked her. We tickled her legs and ran our fingers through her hair.

At the end of the night, her breath grew faint. Amy and I were in the room with just her, but she wasn't letting go. We asked the nurse at Canuck Place to let her grandparents and aunties and uncles and cousins to come in, one by one, to kiss her goodnight and whisper how much they love her in her ear. They did. Nothing could have been more beautiful than for Gabrielle to receive this procession of love and well wishes at the end of the day from everyone who loved her most.

While this was happening, the staff here arranged three beds all beside one another. One for Gabby and one for both Amy and I. In the end, James and Michael joined us (Jonny already asleep upstairs) as they couldn't resist not being with us and by Gabby. She was on the one end of the giant bed so the nurses could reach her, then Amy, then James, then Michael, and then me on the other end. 

Our boys fell asleep and Amy and I knelt by the bed and gave her kisses and told her all those things you can imagine you would say to your child before they leave you on this earth forever. Her cheeks were pink and her body was tired and warm ... warm with "spirit" as I explained to James. "It's our spirits that make us warm. And when we leave our bodies behind and go to heaven, they get cool like everything else too." I went back to my end of the bed thinking how I suppose this was how it was meant to be: Mother and daughter side-by-side, the mother who brought her into this earth, with me waking up at some point in the night to find her spirit gone, and her body left.

At 11:10pm, staring into space, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something blur past the light by the room entranceway. It was real enough that I thought for sure it was our nurse. The light dimmed in my view as it passed. No one was there. "OK," I thought. I got out of bed and walked over to give Gabby one more kiss. Amy said, "You want to be here with her, don't you." And I cried a, "Yes I do."

We shimmied Gabrielle into the centre of the bed and moved the very large, waste-high, metallic oxygen canister closer to the top of the bed so that I wouldn't cut the flow by laying down it. While doing so the cord gently banged the canister and tiny little "gong" "gong" "gong"s filled the room, just like in the temples Amy and I visited several times while living in Asia. It was as if Gabrielle was being summoned. It was as if the synchronicity of the universe was tolling for our wonderful daughter. We didn't know. We thought she might be awake in the morning. 

As we lay down beside her, we adjusted ourselves. Amy held her hand. I shared my blanket with her and put my hand on her chest. She took three breaths. And passed. And what was left was the most beautiful, pale white, utterly angelic body of the most amazing daughter with the most loving spirit a mother and father could ever hope to have.
Five nights ago we took this blog down. We were becoming at peace with things and were settling into what, we believed, was going to be a few more years with Gabrielle. We wanted to keep Gabrielle and our time with her to ourselves.

Within days we realized that Gabrielle's life here had a greater purpose. She touched so many hearts and souls and helped us and everyone she met put things into perspective. Life. Love. Laughter. Now. Already this blog is our scrapbook of memories. It's only the morning after.

Amy wrote about hope. Hope in life. Hope in death. I don't think we could have imagined a better passing for our daughter. For everything she did for us. For her love. Her innocence. For everything. Gabrielle. We are so glad you left this life as you did. We are so glad you chose us. We love you. Thank you for your sharing you life with us. Gabrielle. Our gift from God.