It’s here. Tomorrow. The one year anniversary of my sons death.
I can close my eyes and remember all the awful moments.
I can remember when he stopped kicking and moving.
I can remember driving to my doctors office that morning, praying that I was wrong. Praying that he simply had begun to run out of room to move. Yeah! That’s why he isn’t moving as much! He’s crowded in there. That makes PERFECT sense.
If I close my eye’s I can see my son’s lifeless body on the ultrasound screen. He looked perfect. Beautifully peaceful. He looked like he was just sleeping. There were no signs during my pregnancy that he was sick. He kicked and moved like he was supposed to, when he was supposed to. My pregnancy was routine. Was perfectly normal. There were no signs.
Can still hear the doctors insenstive words to me as she exited the room after telling me my son was dead,” You can always have more.”
Can remember walking out of the room. Trying so hard not to fall apart as I began the “dead man walking” trip down the hall to the front office door. Trying to remain calm, resisting the urge to race out of the office. Past all the beautifully happy pregnant women waiting in the lobby to hear their babies heartbeats. Rubbing their bellies with smiles on their faces. All of them full of hope. Full of possibility. Past the nurses who could only look at me with pity and regard me with an aerie silence. Past the doctor who never even lifted his head up from his paperwork.
Can remember driving home sobbing. It was my husband’s birthday. What was I going to say to him? How was I going to drive to his work and tell him that our son was dead? That I had failed to keep our son safe. Alive.
Can remember walking in the front door and falling apart. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’s supposed to be coming home with us. He’s supposed to spit up on my shirt and pee on me when I change his diaper. He’s supposed to walk and then , eventually, run around and chase after his older brothers. He’s supposed to have birthdays and soccer games. He’s supposed to call me mommy and giggle when I tickle him.
I can remember all of these moments.
The sense of failure.
The sense of helplessness.
What I CAN’T remember is the person I was before my son passed away.