Four Years

I literally could not pull myself up from the spot on the floor where I sat.  Allowing myself to think of all the ways my life would be different had things gone the way they were supposed to...the way I wanted them to.  My grief compounded this year by those brown eyes that watched me curiously.  Forcing me to wonder if these two children of mine could have coexisted.  Is the presence of this one reliant on the absence of the other?  Is William here only because Wesley is not?  And what if Wesley had lived?  Would I never have gazed into those beautiful brown eyes? 

 

My mind wasn't able to make sense of all my questions as I sat there on the floor.  Tracing his perfect spine in ultrasound photos.  Reading each card given to us after his passing.  Weeping over empty pages.  Coming home...My firsts...School days...

 



Every year on March 12th, I do this to myself. I rip off the bandaid that sits over my heart. This sort of dam that has thickened with time. Helping to hold the raw, sharp, stabbing, I can't breathe pain at bay. The bandaid that, four years later, I do occasionally forget is there. As it's just a dull ache on most days. But, on days like March 12th, I want to remember. I want to remember how awful it was at the end. I want to rage over the unfairness of it. I want to ask all my questions again, knowing they'll go unanswered. 

I want to cry. Because three people remembered this year. Three. Something that always gets to me, especially when I pull down his baby book and it bulges with cards from well wishers sent upon his death.  What a stark contrast to the three text messages I received this year.

I want to cry because six year olds shouldn't be wondering things like whether or not their little brother will recognize them when they get to heaven. Or if he is aging there the same way we are aging here.

Mostly I want to cry because I am still sad. And because like taking a band aid off a cut and allowing air to reach it helps with healing...I think my tears have healing powers. Each time they are shed for him, they wash away traces of regret, anger and bitterness that still remain.

Later that day I sat across from my husband and told him that the timing of our adoption would not have been the same, so there's really no way we would have ended up with the same child. "How do you know?" he asked me. "How do you know we still wouldn't have started the process when we did? That it wouldn't have gone the same way? That William wouldn't be ours?" "I don't." Perhaps the children that our meant to be ours will always find their way into our lives. 

I am deeply grateful for the ones I have here to hold.  Hold them tightly I will.

Go here to donate to the March for Babies.  Helping to fund the mission of the March for Dimes...to prevent birth defects, prematurity, and infant mortality.