Oh, my dear son, how I miss you so. It has been eight months since your passing. I am ashamed as a mother to admit that although I miss you, I am no longer sad for you. I never thought the day would come when I would be at peace with your death. It has taken an ocean of tears and many fights to get to this point. I can sit here and look at your pictures with love instead of grief. I see the glow of your skin, the pink in your cheeks, and the mischief in your eyes (the kind that only boys have). How you have changed from that small, premature baby with thin skin and lots of hair.
When you were born, you weighed only three pounds and eight ounces. You came two months early! You were so tiny that I was afraid to hold you because I didn’t want to hurt you. Your head fit in the palm of my hand. Your body was the length of the tip of my fingers to my wrist. Your legs were as long as your body. Your hair was a dark blonde with a soft green, yes, green, tint to it in the florescent light of the hospital’s Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. You had my nose and your dad’s laid back sense of self, but the strength and courage of the bravest warrior. You gazed at us with the prevalent blue eyes like your sisters. Your body would become your foremost hurdle.
Your heart had numerous defects while your tiny lungs gasped for every breath they could muster. Your right hand was clinched in a tight fist with your left hand loose and limp. Your right elbow was drawn up while the left elbow was locked in a straight position. Both of your hips were dislocated from the birth. Your legs were locked at the knee. Your feet were constantly pointed. You had an awful curve to your spine both vertical and horizontal.
You spent the next month and a half in the Intensive Care Unit and had one surgery. I never left your side. Your dad had to leave for work but called and checked on you about three or four times a day. When we got you home, your sisters spoiled you. It was the best days of my life.
The doctors always told us that you wouldn’t be able to walk, roll over, or do much of anything. Way to go on proving them wrong, you just took your own sweet time on doing it, which was fine by us. You never walked but you could kick hard on my leg and arms, and then, in time, rolled over just fine.
You passed away on June 7, 2006. In one swift moment, my whole world changed. I felt as if I were in a black hole being constantly sucked into a void. There are no words to express my hurt, fear, love, or grief. My heart longed for some relief from the pain, but it would never come. I tried to occupy my time with school and work. I even separated myself from everyone close to me, as if I was the one who died and not you. I guess in a way, I did or at least, part of me did. I tried to make sense of this, but was unable to come to any type of understanding. I was never angry with you or anyone else.
I still ask myself, “Why did God give this beautiful creature to me just to take him away?” I will probably never know the answer to that but that’s okay. My life will never be perfect again, but somehow, as time passes, it will be okay.