I did. I knew.
From the moment he turned 19 months old my anxiety ratcheted up about a million points. I just knew that he would disappear.
Last night I kept staring at him in the bath. Just staring. I rocked him before bed breathing in the scent of him, so completely overwhelmed with the weight of him in my arms. He did everything exactly as he does every night. He took a bath, just like every night. He played and read a book, just like every night. He said "Good night daddy. I love you!"(or I did and he grinned) and waved just like every night. He had milk, then snuggled down into my arms until it was time to belly sleep. I laid him in his crib and he slept all night. This morning I walked in his room (at 6:00 am) and said good morning, just like I always do...
I can't communicate how profound this is. I'm dumbfounded. I'm speechless. Im overwhelmed by the tangle of joy and agony.
From yesterday on everything is different. It's different.
I'd like to say that now I will take a breath, that I will chill out, that I wont be terrified every second for my rainbow but I am and I will be, always. Just as I will always be shattered.
I saw I post the other day about how an apology doesn't repair brokenness. It said something like:
Go get a bowl. Throw it on the floor. Did it break? Ok, now apologize to the bowl. Is it unbroken?
The point is pretty obvious but I think the analogy applies to child death. You can put a broken bowl back together but no matter how well you do it, no matter how well it functions, the bowl is never the same. No matter how much you fill it with delicious food there are still pieces missing, however invisible.
In many ways my life and my heart are very full but there will always be a piece missing and I will never be the same.
Here's to 19 months and 5 days.
Until next time...
