Sunday, 3 September 2017

Two years

It's a second year without you today.

It's not any easier, but that's OK. It shouldn't be. We're spending a quiet day as a family, not saying a lot, just getting through it.

You'd be four. I imagine you'd be quite a handful at that age, given your exuberant personality. I think you'd be running all over the place, getting into trouble, but also making so many friends.

Mom went to a concert the other day. The singer heard of a kid who'd found out his cancer was in remission and gave him his guitar. Everyone cheered, but not all the tears were happy.

I think the hardest part about you not being here is seeing everything you'll miss out on. The smallest things - kids going back to school, finding something in the house you'd played with, or an innocent "do you have any other kids?" - can trigger a flood of pain. Or they can make us smile. We never know how we're going to react.

You did a great job picking out a sister. She reminds us of you but she's not you. Sometimes when she smiles I forget you were ever gone; other times... I miss you so much.

We're still your parents, but instead of potty training or playing catch we're out and about telling your story, raising money for the hospital in your name. I alternately worry we're overextending our efforts or not doing enough:  the online auction is going to have more and better items, but next week's mini golf tournament only has four teams registered - at least half of them are either us or our friends.

What can we do though? I don't blame folks who don't follow your story anymore - as far as most are concerned it ended that day in Orlando when you took your last breath. There are no new photos or videos of you, no updates on your fight against leukemia. Just memories or charity updates.

But that's all we've got. That's your legacy. It's no less important to us now than it was then.


  1. A chance meeting on a link to blog on FB by my husband's cousin from Med Hat, from the beginning. Followed pretty much daily. One day my boss was over and said when she saw it on my screen, how do you know Dominic, she is a good friend of your mother (S.R). And so the journey began. We have followed, we have cried, we have laughed, and now we rejoice. Dominic, while maybe things slow on the fundraising side (believe me, if I lived in the hat, I would be there), but you need to know that there is a whole group here STILL that care and still follow your journey. Maybe it's a bit freakish, like recently Princes William and Harry saying WHY did these people care about our mother. I don't know, Dominic for whatever reason inspired (maybe it was your honestly and showing all sides of the horrific bloody pediatric cancer). Some of us, like me, need to be reminded that we don't take ONE day for granted, never since I've followed this blog has that happened. So maybe you don't know me from Adam, but you have helped me be a better person, Dominic's strength has helped me in some medical situations (I say, OMG, relax, if little Dominic could do this, so can you). You see, the whole journey is important. I needed to see Samantha, I prayed for a Samantha, I pray for Dominic. STILL...

  2. I am forever following your story and thanking the stars that I met Dom, that I met you all and you changed my life. Thinking of you each day.

  3. Couldn't read and not reply. Wishing you all continued strength as this next year rolls on.

  4. I feel like a coward, because after all, I am distant from the loss of Dom, unlike you and Trish and your family and friends, but I didn't want to relive the sadness of his loss. I was glued to your updates during your battle, right up until after the funeral. Last year on the first anniversary, I cried as I read your tribute and your heartbreak. I still follow your blog and rejoice in your beautiful Sam. But I didn't have the guts this year.