I haven’t cried much in the two years since Katie died. But tonight, as I sit in my hotel room, trying to come to terms with the fact that I have a daughter, all of my emotions and grief wash over me in unruly waves.I go through every stage of grief all over again. Not that I’ll ever accept Katie’s death, but now I have to grieve the fact that I wasn’t there for my daughter’s first year and a half of her life—for her birth, for the months she was growing inside Kenna’s belly, for the moment Kenna found out she was pregnant. I wasn’t there for any of it. I missed it all.
There’s still so much I don’t know about her or the time Kenna and I spent apart. Can Cadence walk? She was being held the whole time I saw her. And then McKenna mentioned she could talk and was learning new words each day.
I should have been there—not Carson, not her parents—me. I should’ve been there to rub Kenna’s swollen feet and ankles. I should’ve been there to take her to her doctor’s appointments. I should’ve been there to support her through labor, to cut the cord, to assure her our daughter, who was in the NICU, was going to be okay. I should’ve been there to help her through it all.
I can’t get back those moments I missed, but I can make sure I don’t miss out on any more than I already have.
I don’t even hesitate as I pick up the phone and dial my coach’s number.
Coach grants me a two-game leave to spend time here with Cadence and come to terms with being a father. Even though I know I won’t be able to wrap my head around the fact that I have a daughter in a matter of five days, it’s definitely a place to start.
The first step in coming to terms with being a father would probably be meeting the little girl who made me one.
I start a new text chain and enter a number I’ve memorized since I was a teenager.
Me:
Hey Kenna, this is Griff. This is my new number. Where would you like to meet tomorrow? What time works best for you two?
Sunshine:
You can come to the house. I'll send you the address. Is tomorrow at 11:30 a.m. okay for you? When do you fly out?
Me:
Tomorrow at 11:30 works great. See you then.
I don’t let her know I won’t be flying out tomorrow with the team. I don’t want to scare her any more than I already did tonight.
I hadn’t realized until the moment I saw her how lonely I had been the past two years. Having her back in my life has awakened a part of me that had been dormant.
It’s like I’ve been walking around in a catatonic state—unfeeling, completely void of emotions. But tonight, I’m feeling everything. Joy at the fact that I have a daughter. Sorrow and regret that I missed out on moments in her life that we’ll never get back. And hope for a future I hope will be filled with a lifetime of memories and love for my daughter.
24
October
Once we finished Carson’s celebratory dinner, I couldn’t leave with Cadence quickly enough. I needed to get home and feel a sense of normalcy.
Going through Cadence’s bedtime routine always grounds me, giving me a sense of relief when I’m feeling overwhelmed. And nothing has overwhelmed me in the past eighteen months quite like seeing Griffin Turner realize he’s a father.
I’m flooded with guilt when I think of all the ways I could’ve tried harder to get through to him. Instead of forcing him to take responsibility for Cadence by serving him a request for child support, I chose to give up on him, therefore cutting him from her life.
But rather than beating myself up over the past, I choose to focus on the beautiful reality that is my present.
Cadence is filling her bathtime cups with water before splashing it all over. Her giggles echo off the walls of the bathroom, filling my heart with warmth and putting me at ease.
I finish washing her before draining the water and drying her off. After I lotioned her body and added essential oils to her feet, I put a new diaper and footie pajamas on her.
Cadence makes grabby hands toward her bookshelf and I grab two books before we sit on the glider in the corner of her nursery. We readChicka Chicka Boom Boomevery night, though the second book is always different. She gets so excited now when I read the “boom booms” and she recently learned the word, so the highlight of my day is when she joins in.
Once we’ve finished reading, I dim the lights in her room, turn on her noise machine, and begin singing her the same song I’ve sung every night since she first heard it in the hospital after her surgery.
Typically, when I sing this song to her, a string of memories flash through my mind like a movie reel. Memories of Griffin and I. Memories of Cadence’s first year.
Tonight, as I rock my sleepy girl to sleep and sing “You Are My Sunshine,” it is no different; however, I’m brought back in time to one specific memory—the first night she heard this song.
The monitors in the NICU beep quietly as Cadence’s chest steadily rises and falls.
