Today is the six-month anniversary of the day you left us. In fact, right now, exactly six months ago, I was in surgery, and we were holding out with our last ounce of hope for a miracle. I’ve thought about you all day today. I thought about how you looked. I thought about how we lost you. I started writing about the “what happened,” which I want to share with the other families soon.
This was nice…I liked remembering how excited I was to find out about you and then to tell your daddy.
I liked remembering when we found out you were a little boy; I cried a little thinking about that sweet, beautiful moment.
I sat still while I remembered how much you liked to kick. Oh, you little rascal. You were so busy in there. I miss your flutters.
I regretted not knowing something was wrong sooner, and I wondered –as I will wonder for the rest of my life– if there was something (anything) I could do to have saved you.
I truly believe that losing you was something that God wanted and that perhaps there was really nothing that would have made a difference; however, I believe that God is deliberate and purposeful, so I do think that there was a medical explanation for your sudden passing as well. I still struggle with wanting and not wanting answers.
Part of me wants to know so if it can be prevented for the future “rainbow” baby, then we can do something. On the other hand, even if we knew and there was nothing we could have done, what’s the point in knowing other than having knowledge (which is generally good)?
Speaking of rainbows, I wanted to tell you that as far as I’m concerned, you’re also my rainbow. I say so because you’re as bright and beautiful as a rainbow. You bring a smile to my heart all of the time. You’re so wonderful. You give me this strength that I never knew I had…I have more faith, and I don’t worry about little things. I’m more easy going. I’m more confident. Losing you made me grow up completely. Yes, I was already an adult and a responsible one, but losing you lifted the veil and stripped away any remaining vestiges of childish fear that I once held regarding life, other people, dreams, the universe, fear in general, the unknown. You liberated me, darling, which is why you’re so very much my rainbow baby. My only qualm is that I wish I could give something to you…do something for you.
The only thing I can do for you is love you endlessly and try every day to be a better more loving and more tolerant person. I still cannot look at other baby bumps, and sometimes, other peoples babies hurt me because they make me miss you. I wonder what you’d be like. I miss the things I won’t get to see you do, and I feel a bit guilty for saying that I look forward more to seeing your smiling face and running into your little arms and holding you and kissing you than any other when I go to heaven one day.
I love you, sweetheart. You’ll always be my baby boy. You’ll always be my first son. When you have younger siblings, you’ll always be my perfect middle child. You’ll always be part of our family; you’ll always be special, so special. I pray that you sometimes visit Lillianne’s dreams and that when you feel like it, you visit Mommy and Daddy’s dreams. I know we would love to dream about you, honey.
It’s been six months, and in another six months, it will be one year. Time flies when your heart is aching and you wish you could rewind the clock, I guess.