As I sit here, awake in these wee hours of the morning, I am reminded of
where I was at this time three years ago. I remember waking up a
little after midnight with what I was pretty sure were actually
contractions and wondering if this would be the day I'd meet my son.
I remember timing my contractions in our dark, quiet room while my
husband slept. I remember having to wake him up a few times because in
his sleepy fog, he didn't quite grasp that my contractions were already
only three minutes apart. I remember my husband having to wake our new
neighbors at almost 3:00 in the morning to ask if they could stay with
Kiddo.
I've mostly forgotten the drive to the hospital, but I remember entering
the hospital with fairly intense contractions that just kept getting
closer and closer together. I remember being wheeled upstairs to the
maternity ward, having to answer lots of questions in one room (and
hadn't I pre-registered? So, why all the questions?) and then being told
I still had to walk down the hall to my actual room. I remember
thinking that was just plain crazy, if not a little bit mean. I
remember deciding to stick with my choice to not have an epidural, but
then asking for just a little nubain for the pain. I remember that it
didn't seem to help, but that suddenly my eyes wouldn't stay open-- not
that I was falling asleep (that would have been impossible), but that my
eyelids just kept closing no matter how hard I tried to open them and
wondering if that was some weirdo kind of side effect.
I remember being so glad that the incredibly kind midwife I'd seen at
the very end of my pregnancy would be the one helping me deliver, and
not the condescending doctor I'd seen earlier, or someone I'd never
met. I remember the nurses telling me to push and thinking that I just
couldn't. It was too difficult, I was too tired-- and yet, somehow, I
did.
And then, oh then, I met the sweetest angel I've ever known. He was
plump and sweet and perfect, and we were so grateful, so very, very
grateful. We couldn't have known then how short a time we'd have with
this darling boy, or how awfully our hearts would break less than eight
months later.
I have a friend whose son died at nearly six weeks old, about a year
before Isaac passed away. I remember reading a friend's posting on her
blog that said, "The only thing worse than losing him would be never
having had him at all." When I first read that, Isaac was still with me
and I didn't understand what she meant. Now I do. With all the pain
and grief and sorrow that we've felt in these last two and a half years,
it doesn't diminish the joy we felt to have Isaac in our lives. As
horrible as it has been to lose him, I would never want to know a life
without those happy, beautiful months with the sweetest baby you could
ever meet. And we cling tightly to the hope that the joy we felt then
will be nothing compared to the happiness we'll feel when, after this
life, we can be with him again-- forever.
Today is a hard day. I can't help but sob as I type these words. I
MISS HIM. There is nothing like the ache of missing your child. It is
the deepest pain you can imagine. I think of what he would be like at
three, that he'd be talking and running and making us laugh. I wonder
if he'd look like Kiddo. He was a go-getter of a baby, who seemed to do
everything early and didn't seem to fear anything. I imagined he'd be
an athlete, but he was already trying to talk so I sensed that he was
also going to be very intelligent. And he was just happy, mellow, and
peaceful. Would he have stayed that way as a toddler? Would he have
liked the things his brother liked? Would he be reading at the same
amazingly early age? I don't know, and the wondering hurts.
But today is also a glorious day. It is the day my angel was born. It
was the day he brought brightness and hope into our lives. And so,
today we will once again celebrate his life. We will honor him with
kindness and service. We will try to make him proud. We imagine him
looking on from heaven and smiling his incredible smile as he sees the
good deeds done in his memory.
Once again, many of our friends and family have pledged to do the same.
I hope you are one of them. It's quite simple, really. Just go out of
your way to make someone else's day brighter. Write a letter. Forgive
someone. Share a treat. Give someone a ride. Mow someone else's
lawn. Visit someone who is sick or elderly. Recycle. Plant a tree.
Apologize to someone you've hurt. Call your mother. Say thank you.
Offer to babysit for free. Share your talents. Pick up litter. Go to
Church/the Temple/synagogue/mosque. Decide not to argue with someone.
Give a book to a child. Give hugs. Donate to a charity. And hold your
children close. Tell them how much you love them and how glad you are
they're yours.
And think of Isaac, because today is the day.
***If you would like to make a
donation in Isaac's memory, there are many, many organizations we love
like Heifer International, LDS Humanitatian Services, The Ronald
McDonald House, and others which are linked on the sidebar-- and, of
course, there's always your local library. In particular this year, we
support The Cure Starts Now http://csn.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&eventID=605&participantID=1106 in honor of Oliver Palmer. Also, our dear friends, Tara & Aaron are building a LIBRARY in LESOTHO!!
