Remembering Ashley

Four years ago, a little past midnight on December 13, my beloved daughter Ashley died after a long and painful struggle with melanoma, a cruel and aggressive form of cancer.

There are some wounds that never heal.

We miss her.

Ashley’s 38th Birthday

Today would have been Ashley Elizabeth’s 38th birthday–the fourth birthday since we lost her to melanoma in December of 2012.

When Ashley was small, we lived on the side of a hill in Albany, California. She loved to take off running down that hill, laughing, with her hair streaming in the breeze blowing off the bay. And that is how I think of her today: a small girl running away, just out of reach, her laughter music in the wind.

Remembering a Mom

Ashley and Lillian, January, 2012

Today, August 17, 2015, is Ashley’s birthday. She would have been 36 years old today–an impossible number. It’s the third birthday since she died, and we miss her everyday.

Visited in a Dream

I have found Ashley’s birthday this year, the second since her death, particularly difficult. It’s a little surprising to me — I have always been pretty casual about birthdays.

This morning, she came to me in a dream. She stood in a room with her mother and her aunts Holly and Bonnie and her daughter Lillian — who danced and sang and twirled about. Ashley looked at me: her hair was dyed a deep blue, and her mom and aunts and daughter all smiled and raised their hands, dripping blue dye on the floor. Ashley laughed that deep laugh of hers and her eyes were full of mischief.

Remembering Ashley on her Birthday

Today would have been Ashley Elizabeth Graves Denby’s 35th birthday. We miss her.

Locks of Love

Josh, Lillian and Nancy

Back a year and a half ago or so, when, as a side effect of her anti-cancer drugs, Ashley lost her hair yet again, Josh decided to grow his hair out until it was long enough to be cut and made into a wig for her.

Ashley died before they could achieve that goal. Josh kept growing his hair, however, and on Thursday went and had it cut and gave it to Locks of Love, a non-profit that uses donated hair to give high-quality hair prosthetics to financially disadvantaged children suffering hair loss from any cause.

Lillian has a great dad.

In Memory of Ashley: 8/17/1979 — 12/13/2012

Just one year ago, a little after midnight on December 13th, Lillian’s mom, Ashley Elizabeth Graves Denby, died after a long and difficult illness. We all miss her terribly.

Ashley would have told you that she hadn’t figured out what she wanted to be when she grew up, until one day she found herself married to the love of her life, Josh Denby, and the mother of a tiny 1 pound 8 ounce girl whom she named Lillian Grace. And then she knew.

Tiny babies like Lillian, born at only 23 weeks, face long odds just to survive. But Ashley never doubted, and devoted herself to Lillian’s survival. She virtually lived in the NICU. She spent hours in the lactation room pumping breast milk (often difficult for moms of micro-preemies) for Lillian; that milk was one of the keys to Lillian’s not only surviving, but flourishing. And, though she was with Lillian far too short a time, and Lillian will have few conscious memories of her mom, I think that somewhere in Lillian there will always be a spark, a laugh, a spirit that comes straight from Ashley.

Remembering Lillian’s Mom on her Birthday

Ashley and Lillian August 19, 2010: the day she held Lillian for the first time

Today, Saturday, August 17th, would have been Ashley’s 34th birthday. Although we haven’t written much about her since her death in December, we think of her every day. We see glimpses of her in her daughter Lillian, whose robust health and joyous outlook owe so much to Ashley’s fierce devotion and sacrifice. We remember her kindness, her strength and her quiet but very real faith and hope. At some point this weekend, we’ll go eat Indian food in her memory and, I hope, weep a little and laugh a lot. Love you, Ashley Elizabeth.

Secrets

Peggy’s cousin, Evelyn Tully, took this picture of Lillian and her cousin Katelyn at the reception following Ashley’s memorial service last month.

This may give the two dads a small preview of what they have to look forward to in fourteen or fifteen years.

Christmas Eve

It’s an odd Christmas Eve this year: the weather outside, far from frightful, is quite delightful: a balmy shorts and flip-flop day. The family is scattered here and there: my son Richard is off to his friend Lauren’s in Navasota; my brother David and family are at the old family farm in Western Kentucky, driving old pickups around the back forty and shooting off their growing arsenal of advanced fire-arms. Nancy’s brothers and sisters are all in town; we hung out out with them and with her mom in the afternoon and ate beef and pork until we were sated. My mom went to the afternoon family Christmas Eve service, and I’ll go join the choir for the late service (even though they’d sound better without me) and sing the old songs and listen to the old words. And Lillian and Josh are up in East Texas with the Denbys and Lillian’s cousin Katelyn, so it’s pretty quiet around here.

Nancy and my mom and I went to dinner with the Robertsons and Walters, old friends and neighbors, who were gathered from every corner of the globe, last night, and spent a pleasant evening reminiscing about the old days, and hearing about the exploits and enthusiasms of children and grandchildren.

We view Christmas now through the lens of loss, thinking often of my daughter Ashley and my dad Richard, both of whom left us this year. Grief is a strange thing, walking beside you all the time, then grabbing you and overwhelming you when you least expect it. And yet, even when you are weeping, you find yourself laughing at a memory, or at a friend’s ill-timed but welcome joke, or at the surprise of a perfect stranger’s comforting hand on your shoulder.

We have been sustained by the prayers and love of so many people: it’s something of a marvel. And, to each of you and to those you love, and especially to those of you who bear your own sorrows and griefs, we wish a joyous Christmas.