You have leukemia, and lymphosarcoma. I don't know all that much about either of them, but I do know that they're going to take you away from me very soon.
As I lie here on the floor with you and watch you breathe, I remember that, before you even born, God knew how many breaths you'd take in your lifetime, and I wonder how many you have left.
I know you're ready to go. But I'll never be ready to let you go. I want to caress your beautiful head one more time. I want to gaze into your soulful brown eyes one more time. I want to hug you and tell you I love you one more time. But "one more time", just like "tomorrow", is neverending.
I can't believe our time is almost over. You should've had four or five more years before we'd have to think about this.
Do you know what's happening to you? You seem to. You're so graceful about it. I wish I could know what's in your heart and what's going through your mind.
It has only been five days since your final diagnosis came down. Dr. Katie estimated you'd live three to six more weeks but, tonight, I have to wonder if we'll have even one of those weeks. You're slipping away so fast.
It's unthinkable to imagine my life and our home without you. You're so much a part of me. You've preserved my safety, and quite possibly my life, for so many years. You made it possible to go places and do things safely and confidently, even when you would've rather stayed comfortably at home. How can I ever thank you enough?
You'll be gone from us soon, Sophie, but only as far away as a memory. And that being true, we'll be together forever in our hearts.