Stumbling Towards Perfect

Avery Johanna McCarthy 10.05.01 - 10.24.12 You were the very last person to ever touch my daughter on earth. You took her stilled, silent body and you washed her. You changed her into the clothes I had brought over in a brown paper bag. Her favorite blue jeans, a bright blue t-shirt with a tank top underneath. Years later, I'd panic, convinced I had forgotten to bring fresh, clean underwear. I contacted the people at the funeral home - can you believe we've become such good friends? I was told that when a family forgets something like that, they simply discretely provide it. You helped me to understand that it was okay to put fuzzy socks on her feet. You patiently slipped them on her. You took the down comforter I passed to your hands and listened as I explained through choppy breaths and a stream of tears that she'd need to be wrapped up in it - like a burrito. Because that's how she watched TV. Burrito wrapped in her blanket. You wrapped her up tightly. An

During a football game, when a serious injury occurs, all play stops. Players on the field and lining the sidelines immediately kneel. The stadium falls silent. I'm told, although there isn't a specific rule governing bystander protocol during an injury, being still keeps others from gathering around the injured player and getting in the way of people responding to the injury. It is also a sign of great respect. Somewhere in those stands is a mama whose heart just sank to her stomach and she's trying to breathe but nothing's coming. Her child is lying there, not moving, and she has no idea what's wrong. When Avery died, it was as if the entire stadium of my world went silent. People had heard about the accident, word spread, whispering through phone calls and hushed run-in's at the grocery stores. It wasn't until I pressed publish on my first blog post that the stadium community let out a collective breath and began that slow clap as I began to slowl