That's how old my son would be today if he'd have lived. I find it bittersweet in remembering him. I remember the joy of having my first child. I remember how wonderful it felt when he would grab ahold of my finger and not let go. I remember how important I felt when he would crane his neck when I would walk into the NICU and he would hear my voice. That was the first time in my life I felt like I meant something.
I remember when I was in labor, the selfish and immature way I wondered how much attention I would get if something happened to him. My heart still breaks when I think about how selfish I was. Never did I actually believe anything would happen to him.
Time heals all wounds and this is no different. My heart is broken today, sure, but I managed to make it to work and though tears still fell, I made it through the day. He has changed my life on a regular basis since his short stay on earth. The times in my life when I felt like taking my own life because the pain was unbearable, I remembered how bad it felt to lose a child and I could never inflict that sort of pain on my father. He saved my life with the pain caused by his death. When I get frustrated and want to give up on my kids because I don't know what to do, he reminds me that I love them more than anything and could never leave them.
I got to see the love my father has for me when I was panicked because someone wouldn't be there to make sure nothing happened to him when he was buried. My father's last memory of his first grandchild is him in a coffin with someone throwing dirt on him. The reason for that is to comfort me. I almost feel guilty for having the obsession that led my father to that decision.
My grandmother made the trip to Dallas. I remember her getting out of my aunt's van when they arrived at my house the morning of the funeral. I don't think I've ever been so happy to see her before or since. She had made him a baby blanket (she was so proud of her first great-grandbaby) and he was buried with it. She rarely left the confines of her hometown and I remember feeling so grateful she'd made the trip. My aunts both found time in their schedules to make an appearance, as well.
Today, when my heart wants to hurt, I'm forcing myself to focus on the good peanut (that's my nickname for him... he looked almost like a peanut...he was so little) brought to my life and try to let the hurt go. I'm not doing that great of a job this year, as I've been crying consistently all day long. I do find solace in the fact that I believe he would be proud of the woman I am today. Not always have I been able to say that, but I'm finally at a point where I'm proud of the woman I've become.
As part of my healing, I'm having to learn to let go of things I cannot control. I have always wanted a "sign" that he was ok or for him to come visit me in my dreams or as a ghost. When visiting his grave, I often wonder if he specifically can hear my thoughts and prayers. I guess some questions just have to wait until you get to heaven.
Another defining moment in my life was after he passed away, I ran from the hospital. Psychologically I figured if I could run fast enough, I'd not have to deal with it. The basis for my faith was formed that day. My father chased me down the hall and in front of the hospital he caught up to me. He asked me if I was ok and I remember being so mad that I told him "I'm mad at God". He looked at me and very wisely stated "if you're mad at him, you believe in him". He then turned and walked away. It's as simple as that.
There are both good and bad effects of my son dying. I'm choosing to work on the bad and accept that the gift of loving my children as much as I do comes from losing my first. I will never know, but I have a feeling I'd not love them as much if I'd never had him. He taught me to love with all you have because you never know how long you have it. I will rejoice that he is in Heaven looking over us all and waiting for the day we will all reunite inside the pearly gates.
I remember when I was in labor, the selfish and immature way I wondered how much attention I would get if something happened to him. My heart still breaks when I think about how selfish I was. Never did I actually believe anything would happen to him.
Time heals all wounds and this is no different. My heart is broken today, sure, but I managed to make it to work and though tears still fell, I made it through the day. He has changed my life on a regular basis since his short stay on earth. The times in my life when I felt like taking my own life because the pain was unbearable, I remembered how bad it felt to lose a child and I could never inflict that sort of pain on my father. He saved my life with the pain caused by his death. When I get frustrated and want to give up on my kids because I don't know what to do, he reminds me that I love them more than anything and could never leave them.
I got to see the love my father has for me when I was panicked because someone wouldn't be there to make sure nothing happened to him when he was buried. My father's last memory of his first grandchild is him in a coffin with someone throwing dirt on him. The reason for that is to comfort me. I almost feel guilty for having the obsession that led my father to that decision.
My grandmother made the trip to Dallas. I remember her getting out of my aunt's van when they arrived at my house the morning of the funeral. I don't think I've ever been so happy to see her before or since. She had made him a baby blanket (she was so proud of her first great-grandbaby) and he was buried with it. She rarely left the confines of her hometown and I remember feeling so grateful she'd made the trip. My aunts both found time in their schedules to make an appearance, as well.
Today, when my heart wants to hurt, I'm forcing myself to focus on the good peanut (that's my nickname for him... he looked almost like a peanut...he was so little) brought to my life and try to let the hurt go. I'm not doing that great of a job this year, as I've been crying consistently all day long. I do find solace in the fact that I believe he would be proud of the woman I am today. Not always have I been able to say that, but I'm finally at a point where I'm proud of the woman I've become.
As part of my healing, I'm having to learn to let go of things I cannot control. I have always wanted a "sign" that he was ok or for him to come visit me in my dreams or as a ghost. When visiting his grave, I often wonder if he specifically can hear my thoughts and prayers. I guess some questions just have to wait until you get to heaven.
Another defining moment in my life was after he passed away, I ran from the hospital. Psychologically I figured if I could run fast enough, I'd not have to deal with it. The basis for my faith was formed that day. My father chased me down the hall and in front of the hospital he caught up to me. He asked me if I was ok and I remember being so mad that I told him "I'm mad at God". He looked at me and very wisely stated "if you're mad at him, you believe in him". He then turned and walked away. It's as simple as that.
There are both good and bad effects of my son dying. I'm choosing to work on the bad and accept that the gift of loving my children as much as I do comes from losing my first. I will never know, but I have a feeling I'd not love them as much if I'd never had him. He taught me to love with all you have because you never know how long you have it. I will rejoice that he is in Heaven looking over us all and waiting for the day we will all reunite inside the pearly gates.
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