6/16/17I live with the specter of death hanging over us, but in a bizarrely casual way. There are hours at a time where Talia will lay in her bean bag chair and not utter a sound. Her body is so still I check to see if her chest is rising. Each time I look I silently know that if it were to stop rising, I would cry from happiness that she is finally free. Each day I assess Talia’s potential for survival and it continues to look like she will be here for a long time to come. Each day I try to come to grips with that. One more day living with death, and yet deciding that our family must go on living. If I pause for too long, think about it too hard, I will be consumed. My daughter always wear pajamas. It’s not because I’m too lazy to clothe her properly. Putting her in outfits that typical toddlers wear requires a certain amount of skill on my part. Maneuvering her limp head and arms into a shirt is one of the few times Talia expresses displeasure. On rare occasions I do dress her up, but it never causes me pleasure. Seeing her wear Audrey’s hand me down outfits while not being able to run in those same outfits is yet another reminder of the future she was robbed. In a dress, Talia looks like a girl and the contrast between her look and her actions is sometimes too much to bear, so I keep her in PJ’s. In public she can still play the role of that adorable “sleepy” child. At home, it’s her uniform. It keeps my vision focused on her as my “baby” and “patient”.Talia receives early intervention therapies. Her physical therapist loosens her muscles and helps her body momentarily exist in positions she can’t achieve solo. Watching them work gives me a view of Talia’s face I rarely see when cradling her in my arms. Her speech therapist tries to help her jaw stay loose so she can remain fed by the mouth. Her special education teacher exists to play with her. I’ve thought many times about canceling these play sessions. Talia doesn’t play, she doesn’t make purposeful movement, doesn’t actively respond to stimulus, can’t focus her eyes on anything. Yet her teacher has said “Talia is a child and children have a right to play”. How could I deny my child has a right to play, or the right to be near a woman with such optimism. How can I be totally sure of what she learns or enjoys? Have I gotten to the point where I refuse to hear good things about my daughter? Have I already placed her in a grave? I’ve believe I’ve chosen to see Talia with the most realistic eyes I can. I don’t want to place my hopes for cognisense on her, that’s about my desires, not her reality. Yet sometimes I fear that my realistic approach is denying me some of the magical illusion of connection that I long for with her. I love Talia, I spend hours with her in my arms. I make sure her siblings can feel her love for them even when she is unable to outwardly express it. I know Talia feels my love every day, but I also know that her brain is causing her to retreat further and further from her own humanity. I refuse to let myself get swept up in the fantasy of hope that she can be like a typical child because I know it will make the pain of loss greater. It’s an incredibly delicate balance of seeing the world plainly for what it is and yet also choosing not to retreat because of that reality.I mark off days on the calendar. I once believed she would die at eighteen months old. I now see her two year birthday on the horizon. I warn myself to find a way to celebrate it. I seek reasons to be happy at her continued existence. She’s calm, she asks nothing of this world that has already let her down so profoundly. She wants warmth and an occasional (all too infrequent) bite to eat. She wants to free float in the bath and feel the breeze on her face. She wants so little, and I can give it to her. I can give her my attention. I can give her my warmth. Although she is happy lying in her bean bag for hours in a row, I have a babysitter here to hold her and stimulate her in the hours I don't. I write to give Talia a legacy and help people know her. So much of her life is about its impact on me and my family. Her legacy is one of cause and effect. She is the cause of great change in our family and it's effects on me are still unknown. I feel pushed towards something bigger than myself but it's too early to tell.