My late daughter is still teaching me resilience today
Raising Jasmine was more beautiful than anything I could have pictured
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People always say kids are resilient. I used to nod politely, not really knowing what they meant. But then I had Jasmine, my daughter with cystic fibrosis, and life rewrote the definition right in front of me.
At 4, she already knew her routines better than most adults. Our “normal” started before sunrise, when the town was quiet and Jasmine was the only one awake, tugging at my hand.
Morning was the time for the bronchial drainage machine that thumped and vibrated her tiny chest, shaking loose the stubborn mucus her body clung to. She picked the music, always — a soundtrack from her favorite cartoon. Sometimes we both sang along off-key, shaking the walls with our voices while the Vest did its work. It wasn’t fun. But over time, we built rituals into it. Jasmine got an applesauce cup when she sat through the treatment without a fuss.
I told her how brave she was
I was the only adult at home. There were days I wanted to collapse, when work required overtime, or the pharmacy hours changed at the last minute, or Jasmine spiked a fever, and I was left trying to remember in the dead of night which medicine went with which symptom. But then I’d look at her, catching her breath after a coughing fit and taking a couple hits of her rescue inhaler, asking if she could have applesauce for breakfast. She was always hungry after her bronchial drainage treatments, her eyes bright and hopeful. I brought her applesauce and we’d settle on the couch. There was always a towel nearby, just in case. She knew the drill; she wiped her own nose and said, “I got it, Dad” with a tiny voice full of assurance.
I photographed everything: Jasmine reading upside down on the rug, Jasmine with her arms thrown wide on the swing at the park, Jasmine in hospital pajamas, beaming because she got a popsicle. The pictures were for both of us. On the harder days — clinic days, or when the coughing kept her up half the night — I showed them to Jasmine and told her stories about how brave she was. “Remember when you climbed up the slide all by yourself?” She’d grin, even if her eyes looked tired.
Our routine wasn’t glamorous — constant cleaning, pharmacy pickups, appointments squeezed in whenever I could get time off, and then the unexpected emergency room visits that always changed everything. I learned to cook in batches because anything homemade topped the bland hospital food Jasmine always dreaded. But, of course, there was always the request to go to her favorite fast-food restaurant to get her favorite burger and fries in the box everyone knows. We danced in the kitchen sometimes — awkward, exhausted, but happy, if only for a moment.
Sometimes, the reality of cystic fibrosis hit like a punch to the gut — at the park, when Jasmine stopped to catch her breath while the other kids ran laps around her, or at birthday parties where I’d have to hover, triple-checking what was in the snacks and where the nearest bathroom was. It felt unfair, over and over again. One night, after a particularly long day, Jasmine curled up on my lap, curled her small hand in mine, and just whispered, “I love you, Dad.” Those words, so simple, have become my anchor.
We got help where we could — a social worker who called every few weeks, a neighbor who sometimes dropped off homemade meals, a nurse at the clinic who smuggled extra stickers for her chart. But mostly, it was just the two of us, learning to find comfort in the shape each day took, no matter how jagged or unpredictable.
I’d check in on her when she slept, counting the steady rise and fall of her chest in the dim glow of her night-light, the gentle hum of her air purifier in the corner. Some nights, I let myself dream — for new medicine, for easier days, for Jasmine to just have an ordinary childhood. Other nights, I surrendered to whatever hope I could find in our messy, beautiful routine.
Raising Jasmine wasn’t what I expected. It was harder, messier, and more beautiful than anything I could have pictured.
She taught me every day what resilience actually means. And every morning, when I heard her laugh — raspy some days, clear as a bell on others — I knew that, for us, that was enough.
Note: Cystic Fibrosis News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Cystic Fibrosis News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to cystic fibrosis.
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