Dear Anonymous

Ah yes, Anonymous. You struck again. Believe me, it's taken all my strength to restrain myself from another one-finger-salute to you. Apparently, you liked it last time because you came back for more today. Not this time, Anonymous. I'll save my finger for a more deserving purpose. I will, however, congratulate you on single-handedly knocking out what little wind remained in my sails. Good job, Anonymous. You should be proud.

Anonymous, I know these words will get lost in translation with your empathy-lacking-psycho-gotta-come-back-and-kick-OM-in-the-teeth-sort-of-way. But I need to say them. Over the last several months, I've definitely learned that failing to stand up for myself backfires. Not only do I stew over what vile words people like you spew out of your ignorant mouths, but I also begin taking out my aggression on my unsuspecting family.

Anonymous, I feel sorry for you for too many reasons to list here. I don't know why you choose to visit my blog. Your comments are not helpful, in case you've deluded yourself into thinking your sniper attacks somehow motivate me. I don't know why you are too cowardly to make your identity known. My blog stats seem to pinpoint your location as Madison, WI. If that's where you reside, I truly hope you are not the one blogger from Madison, WI on whose blog I have favorably commented. Anonymous, you've succeeded in pushing this paranoid-grief-stricken-cancer-surviving-depression-suffering woman over the edge. Again, I applaud your efforts.

Anonymous, you are not me. I am not you. Maybe you could survive the last several months of my life with a smile on your face. Maybe you'd even bake a little pie and invite some passive-aggressive-head-in-the-sand 'girlfriends' over to your house for tea. You'd sure show them how you can put on a happy face! Somehow, I just haven't mastered that Midwestern trait of yours. Pity me.

You are right, Anonymous. Without sarcasm, I wholeheartedly agree that my children need me. They are cherished individuals given by God. They are beautiful, intelligent, caring, empathetic, charismatic, inquisitive, artistic, athletic, thoughtful individuals. Each of my three living children brings me joy in his/her own unique way. I feed them well, I love them well, I nurse them until they choose otherwise, I hold them when they cry, I discipline them when they disobey, I teach them courtesy and good manners. I ensure they get adequate exercise, socialization, outdoor play, opportunities to explore, and opportunities to excel academically. We forgo paying for cable, a second car, and a lot of other material goods simply because we want them to know God and their religion as a part of their everyday scholastic experience. While I complain about my financial situation and I fret over it, I would never trade the time I spend with these beloved children for the corner office of the most prestigious law firm known to man.

But, Anonymous. I love my fourth daughter, E, as much as I love each of my three living children. My three living children love their baby sister as much as they love each of their other siblings. L, O, and N were so looking forward to holding E and showing her just how much they love her. Instead, E's three siblings joined their parents in demonstrating their love by baptising her, naming her, and burying her body. L draws countless pictures of E. O prays to E and talks to E. N excitedly hopes her baby sister will return. My three living children not only see my pain on a daily basis, they also carry their own pain.

E's siblings see how much I love E. They see the tears, the anger, the sadness, and also the gratefulness for her soul. We are a family of six trying to understand and make our way through the world that can see only five of us. It's not always pretty. I don't always express my grief and frustration healthily. I don't expect you to grasp the significance and impact E's death will always play in our family. But, I do expect you to attempt to respect that which you cannot understand.

And, Anonymous . . . the cancer. I actually had cancer. Not pre-cancer, although I've had that too. So has L. And O's blood work is currently monitored for leukemia. I am grateful thyroid cancer is considered curable. I'm grateful I do not currently need chemotherapy or radiation. The things for which I am grateful far outnumber those I disdain. The funny thing about cancer, particularly thyroid cancer, is that the story doesn't end with surgery. The story goes on and on with bi-monthly doctor appointments and blood tests, neck ultrasounds, mind-altering fatigue, insomnia, joint pain, physiological depression (on top of situational depression coupled with Major Depression and postpartum depression), and debilitating migraines. Again, I don't expect you to understand that it's a daily struggle to get out the door everyday. But, I do expect you to attempt to respect that which you do not understand.

Anonymous, I am a strong person. I am a warrior, not a pacifist. I am fighting grief and depression with every resource available to me. I refuse to simply put E's death behind me. E is my baby girl. I write here about my struggles, attempting to work through the pain. One day, I hope to feel more serenity than pain and bitterness.