February 16, 2025 - Nine Years Later

Our Sweet, Sweet Avery:

Nine years. 

Just less than two years more than you spent with us here on earth.

In June, it will be a full decade since you were diagnosed with brain cancer.  Every parents worst fear. Every parents worst case scenario.  Something no parent ever imagined, nor would even fathom thinking could impact them, let alone even truly thinking of it.

But today, its been a full nine years since you took your last breath, in the arms of your mom, nine years since your dad carried your lifeless body down the stairs from your childhood room, to the car that took you to the funeral home, where a week later, your body would be laid to rest.

Writing that puts a knot in our stomach - that should have NEVER, EVER happened.  That wasn’t how things, how life, was supposed to go.

No, mom would hold you in the moments before you walked down the aisle for your wedding, dad would hold your arm to walk you to the altar, mom would be holding your hand as you gave birth to your children.

There was never a scenario imagined that the last time mom would hold you would be as your final breath was breathed, or that the last time dad would hold you would be as he carried you down the stairs out of your home before your body would be prepped to be buried.

It’s sickening that we even have to write that, that we even have to think that.  And yet, we literally experienced that.

And even still, we didn’t get the worst end of it: You did.

You were robbed of so much.  There is still SO much you will never, ever get to experience.

Never mind not walking down the aisle with dad or mom holding your hand while you give birth - you didn’t even get to finish first grade.

No middle school, no drivers license, no high school, no prom, no graduation, no college applications, no nothing.

All that was taken away from you because of cancer.

Your big sister gets married next month - you should be in the bridal party, you should be annoying her fiancé, you should be preparing a speech.  

But nope, cancer took that from you.

Your brother is away at college - you should be sending him messages telling him how much you miss him, how much youre glad he’s out of the house, how much Addison is driving you nuts, how much mom and dad are grinding you for being 16.

But nope, cancer took that from you.

Your baby sister is in 7th grade - you should be arguing and bickering with her, you should be advising her on everything middle school throws at her, you should be fiercely protecting her.

But nope, again, cancer took that from you.

Cancer took show much from you. Really, it took everything from you.

It’s not fair. It makes no sense. It never will.

But alas, this is our life now.

And it sucks.

You are so missed, Avery. 

So, so missed.

It doesn’t get easier every year - no, it gets more difficult.

The further away we get from you passing away, the wider the hole in our heart gets, the more painful the hurt becomes.

We fight for you, we honor your, we support research and those doing the research for you - but it will never bring you back.  It’s a temporary band-aid on a gigantic wound that no surgery in the world can repair.

So instead of leaning on the work we’re doing in your name and to honor you, like we’ve done in other years, we’re here to say that this year, this all just sucks.

It is what it is. And it sucks.  No optimism or flowery language can soften the blow.

This year, we mourn.  Every day, we mourn, but this year, we’re choosing to not take the optimistic outlook, we’re admitting that this still just sucks.

We miss you, sweetheart.

And we love you, Aves.

#AveryStrong

Mom and Dad.

Join us in our fight back against DIPG and to honor Avery: https://averystrongdipg.org/donate