Yesterday brought it all back.
Same place, same room. We went over everything all over again.
In my surgical report? Horrible, awful things no mother should ever have to read - "Infant boy taken to ICN. Subsuquently expired."
Anyone else want to throw up with me?
His name is Sawyer. He's a beautiful baby. He died in my arms. He didn't "expire." I just hate so much of it.
We were driving home tonight, all of us in the car. Something hit me. I don't know what. Maybe it was the way the clouds were drifting over the moon. Maybe it was the song on the radio. Maybe it was knowing that there should be four of us in the car. Not three.
I started to cry. I didn't want to let him go. When he died, holding him was okay. My baby was gone from this world, beautifully welcomed into the next - and I was okay. Because I had him nestled against my breasts, covered by his blanket and then wrapped tightly into my robe. I wanted to keep him warm.
Everything was okay. I had him.
Then the man from the funeral home came. And it wasn't okay.
We stood up, I told Erik I didn't want to let him go. Please don't make me do this God. Don't make me let him go.
And the man opened up a black case. Set it on a chair near the window, the sunlight pouring in.
If this was a different world, a different place - I would never have done it. I regret not asking to hold him at the funeral home. Why didn't I ask to hold him again?
My son is gone. He's gone every moment. Every aching second.
I found out yesterday that I had lost a lot of blood. And I mean, a lot. Is that why I was blanketed in God's grace?
Why didn't you take me too?