I do not really know why we all forgot about the prediction of an early death for Turner Syndrome children. Perhaps it was because Sarah always had so much life in her, right to the end.
When death takes someone you love, you are left with a hole in your heart that will never be filled, and a well of pain that will never be emptied. “How are you?” Elissa asked me three months after she was gone. “How are we supposed to live through this?”
I can take a small satisfaction in the fact that death’s victory over my daughter remains incomplete. For though she is gone she has left me this gift: When I see a homeless person destitute on the street, I think of Sarah and my heart opens. If there is a criminal shut behind bars, I force myself to remember her compassion and a sadness shades my anger. If there is a child languishing in need, I think of my daughter in a mud floor hut ministering to the children of the Abayudaya tribe, and my heart goes out to them. These images and their influence are an incarnation of her life after life, her rolling of the soul, her gilgul hanefesh. Whenever I think of Sarah, tears well in my eyes and my chest fills to the brim; and then I am overwhelmed by the terrible sorrow of our human lot and how finally, in this, we are one.
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