On October 26th, 2010, at 9 weeks old, Phoebe Rose was diagnosed with high risk MLL + Infantile Leukemia. On November 18th 2015 , she took her last breath. This is her story of hope and love in the face of cancer and despair. Phoebe always brought the joy and continues to inspire us to make a difference. It is best read from the beginning. Thank-you for visiting.

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Phoebe should be turning 6 this Monday. She should be blowing out candles, opening presents, and inviting her friends over to run through the sprinkler and play with her new toys. She should be racing her bike up and down the street, running to keep up with Mae, and laughing until her belly hurts. She should be helping her Daddy make her favorite foods and picking out the most complicated birthday cake. She should be getting ready for grade 1. She should be here, but she's not.

Instead of planning a party and loving every minute of it, we struggle with how to mark this very special day. How do you celebrate a birthday for a child that is so loved but not here? How do we honour and celebrate Phoebe's life? How do we let her know that she is loved beyond measure and missed every single moment? How do we include Mae in all of this and hold back tears? How do we make it joyful when all I want to do is pull the covers up and cry.

We miss her so much. 

How do you parent a child who has died? I struggle with this every day. I struggle with the need to be Phoebe's mom, to care for her, to mother her even though she is not physically here. And while this is true, to me she is here in every other sense. She is here in my thoughts, my heart, my life. She is mine and I am hers and that will never change. And so, I mother her. I keep her things safe. I carefully frame and display her artwork. Photographs of her fill every room of our home. We plan to create a garden for her, complete with a carved stone by her Daddy. We plant trees. Her drawings still hang on the fridge, like she just created them. I imagine her lying on her tummy with her legs in the air - coloring and drawing. I picture her standing tall against the door frame to see how much she's grown. I imagine her telling stories and singing songs with Mae. She is present in our lives, in our house - but then she's not. She is everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. I tend to the plants at her graveside - I water them and after I do, I sit down and talk to Phoebe. Sometimes I sing to her. Sometimes I read. To some this may seem crazy, some people tell us we should move on, but there is no moving on from this and to me, all of this is all I can do to keep from going crazy. We spent every single moment with Phoebe while she was here. We did not leave her side. We relished every second we were able to be with her. Now that she is gone,  we still need to be with her, but we struggle with how. 

We started the Phoebe Rose Rocks Foundation (we are almost all set up with approval from Revenue Canada) so that we can help other families, because no one should ever suffer like Phoebe did, because we need a cure, because Phoebe asked us to "make it okay", but truly I also started it because I need Phoebe's legacy - her life and her memory, to continue. It is another way that I can parent my child who should be here, but is not. 

This new life we have is so hard. It's painful. Each day we wake up with the realization that Phoebe is really gone. Sometimes at night, when Phoebe visits me in my dreams, I can imagine for a brief moment that she's here. I soak in this moment, but then, the sun comes up and I am hit hard with the painful reality that she's not. She should be, but she's not. 

Grief is heavy and hard and it fills every space. Every single crack. It is all encompassing and keeping it in check is exhausting. I spend most of my days pretending that everything is okay. It's not. How could it possibly be okay? No one wants to hear stories of children with cancer and when people ask that innocent question of how many children we have - no one is expecting - two, one should be here, but she died. And so, on the outside we are "fine". We ride bikes with Mae, we play at the park and shop for groceries - we need to do this because the world just keeps turning, but on the inside we ache. I ache physically and emotionally from the sheer effort of pretending. My body literally hurts. My heart hurts. I can't catch my breath. I fight back tears.

And so, this Monday August 8th there will be no excited little girl anxious to start her day as a 6 year old. Phoebe will not instruct us on what she would like for her birthday breakfast and dinner. Instead we will prepare her favourite foods knowing so well that sushi, bean salad and pulled pork will never be the same. We will honour our sweet girl however, like we do every day. We will honour her memory and her life and we will continue to do all we can to make it better.

We will do as Phoebe taught us and look for the joy. We will surround ourselves with the quiet and peace of nature with the hopes of finding our girl. And of course there will still be joy because Mae wouldn't have it any other way and because joy is always found in the memories we cherish of our sweet Pheebs. 

But we will never be the same.

Thank-you to everyone who has sponsored a hole, donated, provided items for the silent auction, and signed up to golf at the first annual Phoebe Rose Rocks Golf Tournament. We are looking forward to a great day and excited to give back and raise money for childhood cancer research. All money raised will be donated to Dr.Jason Berman's lab in Halifax, Nova Scotia and we hope to raise enough to direct to MLL+ leukemia research. For more information on Dr.Berman's groundbreaking lab and research, please visit http://bermanzebrafishlaboratory.pediatrics.dal.ca

To register to golf, donate, or sponsor a hole please visit https://golfmontcascades.golfems2.com/event/phoebe-rose-rocks-foundation-first-annual-tournament




Thursday, July 28, 2016


"It was a fine cry - loud and long - but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow". Toni Morrison 

It has been more than 8 months without our sweet Phoebe Rose. How is it possible that so much time has passed? Time does not heal all wounds, or at least not wounds like ours that can't possibly heal, and in many ways - with each passing day, it is more difficult to live without Phoebe. It is painful. We cling to the beautiful memories we have and do all we can to keep these memories alive and to honour Phoebe's life and continue her legacy of hope. One way we are doing this is the Phoebe Rose Rocks Foundation and we hope to have official charitable status from Revenue Canada in 2-3 months. 

Phoebe's 6th birthday is coming up - she loved her birthday, but was very particular about how it was celebrated. It could only be celebrated once and always on her day. She also planned very far ahead and while she was here, she requested a mermaid cake and I know she would have loved to blow out the candles. This year, instead of planning a party, we are organizing a golf tournament in her memory. Please help us honour our sweet girl and help other children with cancer by registering for the tournament. 

Please follow this link to register: https://golfmontcascades.golfems2.com/event/phoebe-rose-rocks-foundation-first-annual-tournament

Cancer is the leading cause of disease related death for Canadian kids. Many cancers affecting children still have little hope of a cure. Phoebe tried every single treatment available, many of which were 50 year old chemotherapies, and she only ever had, at best, a 20% chance of beating her disease. This is not okay. 

All proceeds from the tournament will go to childhood cancer research, like the research that gave us 5 years with our precious Pheebs.

We love you and miss you so much, sweet Phoebe Rose.


Friday, May 6, 2016

Mother's Day ...



My first Mother's Day without Phoebe and it still doesn't seem real that she's not here. 

I miss everything about Phoebe. I miss her voice, her smile, her touch. Her laugh. How she felt in my arms. The tight hugs she would give - her little arms wrapped around my neck. I miss making her favorite foods and watching her cook with Jon. I miss watching her eat and how she loved her food. I miss helping her. I miss talking with her, drawing with her, and her wise ways. I miss taking care of her. Being with her. I miss hearing her sing from the backseat and shouting "turn it up!". I miss dancing. I miss watching her play and laugh with Mae. I miss putting her to bed at night and waking up with her in the morning. I miss running after her bike, holding her hand, carrying her when she was tired, rocking her to sleep, pushing her stroller. I miss every. Single. Thing. 

This place we are in is very lonely. It is a long and hard road and we are just at the beginning. We are only just learning to live without Phoebe, but as I write that I want to scream - No!! This is not how it is supposed to be. 

Imagine waking up every single day without your child. Imagine going to sleep wishing and praying you will see her in your dreams. Imagine wanting to stay asleep because this is when you see her. Imagine searching for her, for signs of her, but knowing that these signs will never satisfy your longing. Imagine never being able to hold your child's hand again. Imagine never receiving another handmade card and treating the ones you have like the most precious glass. Imagine the only connection you have with your child is through her things. Imagine inhaling deeply the scent of her clothes and toys, just to feel close to her. Imagine needing someone you will never have again, with every breath you take. Imagine the pain and heartache. It is impossible. 

The empty seat at our table will always be empty. Mae will always miss and need her sister. Jon and I will always long for Phoebe. We will always feel guilt and regret and sadness. This does not mean that we won't or don't feel joy, of course we do, we have Mae to remind us of this, but the emptiness that remains is not easily or even possibly filled. How do you fill a space that once held a precious child? You don't. I have heard that we will learn to carry our grief, but I also know that this is the hardest thing we will ever do. And its hardness will last a lifetime. 

Today I finalized the details for Phoebe's headstone. The most unnatural thing in the world is done. Phoebe's name, date of birth and date of death will be carved into stone. Her favorite things - a monkey swinging from a tree, butterflies, a squirrel  and three little birds will also be carved. This was no easy feat and I would like to thank the staff at the Beechwood Cemetery and Rock of Ages for their compassion and kindness. We heard many times that extra care and attention was taken to make sure this stone is perfect for our special Phoebe. We were told that every one working on it knew about Phoebe and was touched by her life and her death. I know that as wrong as it feels to create a grave stone for my five year old, Phoebe would love that it incorporates her favorite things. 

Carved at the bottom of the stone are words with a meaning we learned from Phoebe and Mae. Words they help us to live by. Words that remind me that this incredible ache and the pain I feel are because we have a love so great. 

All you need is love.

We miss you and love you so much, sweet Phoebs. 

This September 18th, the first annual Phoebe Rose Rocks golf tournament will be held at Mont Cascades Golf Course, 30 minutes from Ottawa. We are very excited about this and will be sharing more details soon. 





Monday, March 7, 2016

112 days ...

I have been sick with the flu for the past week which has allowed me a lot of time to think and reflect. And cry. I have done a lot of crying. I learned that it's true - getting out of bed and breathing in fresh air really does help with feelings of overwhelming sadness, but when you can't get out of bed due to a debilitating flu - it's hard to escape.

Today marks sixteen weeks without our precious girl. 112 days without her touch, her smell, her voice. 112 days of living without. At times, it seems impossible. Impossible that it has been this long yet it already feels like a lifetime. 

I often visit Phoebe's room and sit among the clutter. The years of boxes from Memphis. Dresser drawers filled with clothes that have long been too small and a closet full of big girl clothes waiting for a return that never happened. Her toys and books. Her artwork and creations. The stickers she "accidentally" stuck to the floor. The pencil scratches on the door frame that followed her and Mae's growth. 

When Phoebe was healthy and well, her big sister convinced her to share a room and so we squeezed her bed into Mae's room. I remember asking them if they had enough space, and each of them assuring me that it was a perfect fit. It is truly the only time that Mae has ever slept through the night. Now, with Phoebe gone from this treasured space, she needs Jon or I to stay with her, as Phoebe once did. And so we do. 

We are taking things one day at a time. We have more time than we have ever had before, but are often at a loss with what to do. Our roles as caregivers, our identity for so long, is gone. Phoebe needed us to care for her, especially in the final months of her life, and I would return in a heartbeat to that world if I could. Despite all that happened in Phoebe's life, I truly never thought she would die, or at least not as soon, not as quickly, not in Memphis, and so I still feel like I should be caring for her. I am still catching my breath. 

Today though, today Mae needs us, and I am grateful for this. Mae helps us through and in many ways, she always has. 

We are picking up the pieces and I imagine we will be gathering up and rearranging the fragments of our broken lives for a very long time. For the rest of our time. I know that these pieces will never fit together as they once did again, but I hope that one day, we will find a way to help them fit in a new way.

Something that helps me to cope, at least right now, is honoring Phoebe. Each day I try to honor her - sometimes it is in small ways. I feel the sun on my face and remember how Phoebe loved to play outside. I try to share our story, raise awareness, and do what I can to honour Phoebe's and our desire and need for it to be okay. I am not yet shouting it from the rooftops, as we once did, but I'm trying.

To honor and remember Phoebe in bigger ways, we are embarking on the long process of applying for charitable status, and in the meantime, Phoebe Rose Rocks has a Facebook page at www.facebook.com/phoeberoserocks
This page will update Phoebe's friends on events, fundraising, and other activities done in Phoebe's honor and memory. 

There are no words for how painful this is. There is nothing I could write that would accurately describe the incredible ache and the longing I feel each day. My heart is simultaneously broken and full of so much love, and this love reminds me that there is always light and reason to hope. 

We love you and miss you so much, sweet Pheebs. 

"There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in". Leonard Cohen 

Out first event is Childhood Cancer Canada's head shaving event, and guess what? We are looking for team members to join Phoebe's daddy, grandpa and friends. If you are interested in a brave new cut just in time for summer, or even a new look (we have a team member shaving his lifelong mustache!) please join us and help raise money for much, much needed childhood cancer research. For more information or if you would like to make a donation, please visit https://m.akaraisin.com/11683/team/102348#.Vt2_ZUW8SUM.facebook

Team Phoebe Rose Rocks going bald over the years... 









Friday, January 1, 2016

A new year and it's our first year without Phoebe. It's impossibly hard. It doesn't seem real and it is harder than I could have imagined. How can we be starting a whole year without Phoebe? It doesn't feel like a happy new year as so many people say and if not for Mae, I would have pulled up the covers and woken up on January 2nd. 

For many years, I looked forward to the new year. For some people it is a chance for a fresh start, but for us, since Phoebe's diagnosis in 2010, we hoped it could be a chance for a life without cancer. Phoebe was diagnosed with cancer late in 2010 and so naturally, we anxiously awaited the new year, desperate to say good bye to the year that brought us leukemia. We believed that 2011, and all the years that would come after it, would be lived without cancer. 2011 came and it brought remission, but it also brought relapse, and so once again, we found ourselves anxiously awaiting a new year. 2012 came and brought more remission and we spent all but 3 weeks of this year without cancer, so once again we looked forward to the new year. 2013 was our year without cancer. We had a full year and it was so good, but Phoebe was still receiving low dose chemo, so we looked forward to 2014. 2014 would be our year without chemo or cancer, but then it came and brought with it Phoebe's third and final relapse. We still held on to hope for a future without cancer and believed that 2015 would be our year. The year we would finally be rid of cancer. 

2015 was the hardest year. As hard and unpredictable as the years before it, but without promise of remission or a cure for Phoebe's leukemia. We spent the entire year trying clinical trials and combinations of drugs in an effort to finally be rid of cancer. We were thankful for the time we had; the time given to us by these trials, research and new therapies. 2015 was wrought with complications, infections, and heart ache, but it was also full of so much joy. We laughed and played and enjoyed the life we had. Mae learned to ride a bike without training wheels and Phoebe learned to ride one with. They both squeezed out all they could from each day - whether it was a day at St.Jude or a day at the park. It was a good and beautiful life and as hard as it appeared from the outside, I would live 2015 over and over again if I had the chance. Over and over and over again. I would hug Phoebe tight and watch her play with Mae. Even the darkest days were bright days compared to these days without Phoebe. 

We had no idea that 2015 would be the last year we would have with Phoebe, or that we would never get another chance to start off a new year with hope for Phoebe's cure and her future. We had no idea that 2015 would be a year of last moments and memories. Of last hugs and snuggles, last words spoken, and last kisses. We had no idea that we would never get another chance to start off a new year as a family of four. That Mae would be left to grow up without her precious sister and friend. We had no idea that Phoebe would leave us. 

And so 2016 - you are bittersweet. Much more bitter than sweet as we look ahead to a year without our precious Phoebe. As we look ahead to all of the firsts without our girl and try to hold on to and remember the lasts. New Year, like every thing else, will be hard and different and we will do our best to make the most of this new life for Mae. I can't imagine there will ever be a time when I look at the new year with hope - eyes bright and open to possibility. 

Or maybe the hope has shifted. And so, as we embark on this new year without our precious Pheebs, as the busyness of the holidays fades away and our house is quiet and empty, I find myself asking for peace and healing. Please, be gentle with us 2016. Help us remember and honour our sweet Phoebe. Help us make it okay. Help us find the joy and hope in each day. Help us live life as Phoebe did - with joy, eyes wide open to possibility, heart full of love. 

We miss you sweet Pheebs.

Thank-you to everyone who has made a donation in memory of our beautiful Phoebe. One reason we had so many beautiful moments in 2015 was because of research and it is so important to us to give back where we can, so thank-you for allowing us to do this. The research was never moving fast enough for Phoebe, but we have hope that in time, there will be answers. Please follow the link below to make a donation of hope. 
http://fundraising.stjude.org/site/TR/GiftFunds/GiftFunds?px=2109846&pg=personal&fr_id=39300

Some beautiful moments from 2015 ... 













Tuesday, December 15, 2015

One month ...

A few people have suggested that I keep writing, so here goes ... I'm going to try. 

Writing about Phoebe started as a way to keep family and friends informed on all that was happening, but then it quickly became something more. For me, it was therapy. Writing helped me to feel like I was doing something, and even if it was just getting words out, I felt useful. I was the story teller and it was a joy to write about Phoebe. I wish I wrote more. I wish I shared more of her wit and personality. I honestly don't know if I can write about grief and what is left now without Phoebe. I think, like before, that it could be therapeutic, but it's sad and personal and unlike before where I shared Phoebe's story - this time it's mostly me. And it's hard. 

It has been one month of missing Phoebe. One month of longing for her with every breath I take. One month of holding on. 

It still feels like a nightmare - it most definitely is a nightmare, but it still feels like one I might wake up from. Despite all that Phoebe had been through and all of her many obstacles, I honestly never thought she would leave us. 

Phoebe's death has opened my eyes to the world around me and I notice things I never did before; probably because I look for Phoebe everywhere. Not the Phoebe I need and want, but a sign, anything that will let me know she is here. The sound of the wind in the trees, sunshine through dark clouds, the hint of a rainbow without a drop of rain, three birds - always three, darting across the sky, the cardinal that visits us often, the sky lit up and painted, the brightest stars - to me they are all Phoebe. Noticing these things reminds me of the light that is still here, and so I hold tight to the belief that she is with me. 

But, just like I feel Phoebe everywhere, everything reminds me of Phoebe. When I venture out of my house I am flooded with memories - places we have been, times we shared, food Phoebe loved, toys she would have wanted this Christmas, songs on the radio she would have loved and danced to, songs she did love and dance to, songs she would have told me to turn up, and others that would have her say, "no Mama, not this one". The empty space in the backseat, the empty seat at the table, our quiet house that was once full of the best kind of noise and chaos. The treasured Christmas ornaments Phoebe made that will forever be handled like they are the most breakable. The Christmas lights. Phoebe loved Christmas lights. Sometimes it feels like torture and it often appears so as it can leave me a mess of tears, but it's a welcome torture because it's all about Phoebe and so, I let the waves wash over me. 

Just as there is comfort in the idea that Phoebe is with us, there is the constant reminder that she's not. She is not here, or not in the way that we need and want her to be, and to long for something, to need something that I will never have again - is impossibly hard. And in many ways, it gets harder with each passing day. 

I used to wonder why people say a child is lost when one dies. I have said this myself many times, but Phoebe is not missing. She is not lost. We don't need to simply look for her in the right place and there she will be. Found. Safe and sound. But then, when I find myself looking for her everywhere, when I search for and long for signs of Phoebe - when I wish to find her in a dream, it seems that in some ways, she is lost. She is lost in a way that I will never find. Or more likely, I am terribly lost, and Phoebe is gone. 

I miss her so much. 

We are taking things as they come and doing what we can to honour Phoebe each day. Sometimes honouring Phoebe means getting up, making coffee, and facing the world. Sometimes it is putting up as many Christmas lights as we have because I know it would make her smile. It always means loving and caring for Mae and as Phoebe would insist, making sure she does her school work. Sometimes it is thinking about what's next. Phoebe would not want us to lay down and give up. She would want us to try. She would want us to live. She would want us to find the joy and happiness instead of the anger and hate, and as hard as this is right now - I will try. Everyday, I will try. 

We are thinking about forming a charitable foundation in memory of Phoebe with the goal being to raise money for childhood cancer research while helping to support families like ours, who need to travel far from home to receive treatment. What happened to Phoebe and how hard she fought, is not okay. It never will be, but maybe we can make it better for someone else. All of this is a dream right now, but one that we hope we can make happen. 

Phoebe fought cancer for five years with outdated medicines. There truly was never an answer although we searched and searched and searched for one. There continues to be very few, if any, real answers that solve relapsed MLL + leukemia - in addition to the too many other childhood cancers for which there is no cure and this needs to change. We truly need to do better and I believe we can. 

If you would like to give a gift of hope this Christmas, in memory of Phoebe, please follow the link below to donate to St.Jude. If you are donating from Canada, you need to reset the country of residence from the US. All funds raised will be directed to Dr.Gruber's lab and infantile leukemia research. 

http://fundraising.stjude.org/site/TR/GiftFunds/GiftFunds?px=2109846&pg=personal&fr_id=39300

Thank-you for keeping our family in your thoughts. 





Phoebe's eulogy - November 29th 2015 

It is impossible to put into words how we feel or how much we will miss Phoebe, what she meant to us, and the intense void that she has left in our lives - so instead I thought I would share a few words about the small but mighty person that Phoebe was and the big legacy she leaves behind. 

Phoebe was born on August 8th 2010 and from the very moment she entered this world, she was a force. We chose the name Phoebe because we loved it and it just seemed right. We learned after Phoebe was diagnosed with cancer that her name means "the bright and shining one" and warrior princess and she certainly lived up to her name. Phoebe was our bright and shining star  - she was given a very difficult life, but to Phoebe it was beautiful. To Phoebe everything was worthy of joy and she made the most of every second she had. 

Phoebe was wise beyond her years and often seemed to know more than we did. Looking back now, I think she probably did. Even as an infant, I remember thinking that her eyes were trying to tell me something. Like my Granny May would say - she's been here before. She was a beautiful old soul. 

Phoebe never thought of herself as sick - as her parents, we worried and would always ask her how she was feeling and if she was okay - she would always say in her sassy way that seemed more like a teenager than a five year old - "I'm fine now please stop asking". She would not want to be remembered as the girl who fought cancer  - she would want to be remembered as the girl who lived. Because she did. She lived her life joyfully and she opened our eyes to what life is truly about. Every chance she had Phoebe was trying something new. She laughed and played and jumped and danced and sang her heart out despite all that she was going through. Her energy was contagious and her laugh was the most beautiful sound.  She was just incredible - the coolest kid. She had the best taste in music for a five year old, often requesting we freeze dance to pumped up kicks and weezer. Even at 3 years old, Weezer was her favourite band. She loved good food and much to her daddy's delight, would request he make her "restaurant food" and offer to help. She was fiercely proud - of herself and her big sister and all they would do together. She was feisty - so feisty and not at all afraid to speak her mind. Even at 5 years old, she made her wishes very clear. She bossed us all around, always reminding us to do what was right whether it be to put a seatbelt on, for Mae to do her homework, or to eat healthy food - just this past Halloween she reminded all of us that candy is bad and made sure Mae brushed her teeth after every sweet. we loved it. We loved her little voice. For five years, She defied all logic and science and thrived in the face of a very aggressive cancer. When babies relapse like Phoebe did, there are no treatment options, no cure, and often no hope. This hasn't changed, but Phoebe lived and loved and played for 4 and a half years after her first relapse. 

Phoebe taught herself to read. One day, she asked if she could read a simple book to us and promptly picked it up and started reading. Jon and I looked at each other and mouthed the words - did you teach her this? She drew and painted with so much talent and creativity, that our hearts bursted with pride, Phoebe could put together lego well beyond her age with one hand; she was always the builder - Jon, Mae and I, the "piece finders". She believed she could and so she did. After spending 2 months in the hospital recovering from a stroke that affected her speech and large and fine motor skills, the very first thing Phoebe did when she got home was ride her tricycle. And she was fast. After a fungal infection that is normally insurmountable - Phoebe learned to ride a bike and a scooter. Ten days before she died she asked to try roller skating - and she did. Phoebe was a miracle - all that she accomplished, the time she had, each milestone - they were all miracles. At times it seemed that Phoebe was unstoppable, but then it was clear that our fearless leader needed a rest. 

We learned so much from Phoebe and in many ways she was our teacher. We learned about love - what it is like to really and truly love because watching the love that was shared between Phoebe and her big sister Mae was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Phoebe loved with her whole self and we loved her right back. Phoebe taught us to speak up for what we believe in and to never give up. We learned to seize the day - that all of the little things that we complain about or think we need in life really don't matter. Phoebe taught us to always choose hope - that anything is possible. 

Phoebe inspired us to be better. She inspired her community. Her journey taught us that we need to do better and Phoebe taught us that we can do better. She would often tell us that what she was going through was not okay - she was very clear about this - as much as she loved life and found joy - fighting cancer as a child and all that comes with this -- it was not okay. I have often avoided using the word fight to describe anything about Phoebe - it didn't seem right because it is not right for any child to have to fight for a chance at life, but These past five years, Phoebe really showed us how to fight  - and now that Phoebe is not here we will continue her fight. Telling Phoebe's story does not end here, in fact, in some ways it begins. What we do now. How we honour Phoebe. How we make sure her story continues is so important. We have ideas and plans and we hope that each of you who was inspired by Phoebe, each of you who also grieves for our sweet Phoebe will help us turn our grief into something good. I know Phoebe would have wanted us to make it okay. 

I wish so much that we were able to hold Phoebe longer, to hear her voice, to see her grow up. I know she would have been amazing and I will always wonder what she could have done. The time she had with us although too short was and will always be the most beautiful gift, it may have only been 5 years, but for five years, we watched Phoebe grow. For five years, we laughed and loved. For five years, I got to be Phoebe's mom.