Eric Meyer is living through my worst nightmare.

“Are you scared, Rebecca?”

A nod through tears, her jaw quivering again.

“Can you tell us what you’re scared of?”

She wept again, unable or unwilling to say the words. Kat and I choking on our pain and her pain as Rebecca sobbed with renewed terror, clinging to Kat and squeezing my hand in hers.

We asked her again, as gently as we could through our anguish. And again, later, when we had all recovered enough. And again.

Finally: “Baby, can you whisper it to one of us?”

She nodded, miserably.

“Who do you want to whisper it to?”

She pointed at Kat. Shifted her head up and around. Whispered, her voice so tiny and full of pain and fear and breaking into another wail: “Of dying.”

I will never know how long we wept with her. What we said to try to soothe her pain even a tiny bit. How we tried to comfort and protect her. I will always remember how utterly helpless and wounded and shattered I felt, the sick ache in the center of my chest.

After I read his post, I went to my 3 year old, hugged her tightly, and cried. She didn’t understand why I was crying. That’s OK. I didn’t want her to. She shouldn’t have to. She’s too young, but so are Eric’s daughters.