Angelversary

It's hard to believe it has been twelve years since the last time I held my baby boy in my arms ... felt his dark, soft curls under my hand ... his head on my shoulder.  The passage of time has allowed me to find some acceptance and peace with his death.  Knowing that my younger daughter would not exist had he not died kind of forced some level of acceptance.  Knowing how sick he really was helped me get some peace too.  It was worth getting the autopsy done, as at least this way we knew there was nothing more we could have done.

I still get a bit flooded with emotion though.  I get these snapshots of memories that I don't normally let myself linger on because they are just too painful.  For today though, I let myself remember.  I let myself remember screaming for my husband for help as he stopped breathing and had milk coming from his nose and mouth.  I remember my husband shoving things aside to lay our son flat so he could give him CPR.  I remember the fire truck was the first emergency vehicle to arrive.  I remember telling the EMT that we didn't want him intubated; running down the list of his medical conditions; frustration at drivers that wouldn't give way, wasting precious seconds while my son lay dying; sitting  across from him and holding his tiny, curled hand.

I remember the aftermath, too.  I remember being angry at the paediatrician for being right that he wouldn't live long.  Putting together the montage of his photos; getting appropriate clothes as I was still very overweight; calling my sister to tell her he'd died, then her telling me she wouldn't be able to come to the funeral.  And one of the more painful memories - putting Alex's casket in the hearse, turning and looking at the crowd, utterly alone while my husband's family initially went to him because nobody from my family was there.  I carried my son's coffin because I was never going to be able to carry him anywhere, ever again.

HIs death is the closest I have come to being truly broken.  My faith in any kind of benevolent, omnipotent deity died with him.  Part of me died with him, and for a long time I wanted to join him.  I truly understand what it means to have a broken heart.  We lost a lot of friends along the way, too.  They were still largely in the single head space, so couldn't imagine having a baby, never mind watching him die.  We lost the two parent friends that hung around when I had a miscarriage while they had a second successful pregnancy ...

I remember the day he was born, watching him struggle to breathe, and wishing I could give him my lungs.  I remember thinking that I knew what it meant to have my heart beat in the body of another.  I had so many simple dreams for him - pushing him in a swing and watching him soar to the sky - I think he would have loved that.  He liked movement, but didn't have the muscle tone to sit in a swing.      I used to sing to him at bath time, and we watched TV and did genealogy research together (well, I did the watching and research, and he napped on me quite a bit).

I have no idea what he'd be like as a 12-year-old boy.  I didn't get a chance to really get to know him.

I miss him.  I may have found a measure of peace and acceptance, but I still miss him.

Having my living children keep me from wallowing too much in the pain of his death, as they give me plenty to think about.  But for a few moments today, I remember him and I grieve.