Dearest Ben,

Today marks six months from the moment you were taken out of my body, completely still, your heart no longer beating alongside mine. I am halfway through the first year without you. I am not sure how to feel today. I miss you desperately and yet I am growing accustomed to this new reality. The one where there is no you.

I wonder about missing  you, about the strength of the hurt. I wonder how long I will remember the fragility of your skin and the way it felt like I might rip you apart with the lightest touch. I wonder how clearly I will recall the image of your tiny naked body as time marches on. Already the memory of your feathery weight on my chest is fading. One pound, one ounce. But you felt solid too, in your little yellow and blue blanket. I held you and counted your ten fingers, your ten toes. I marveled at your unfinished perfection, your stillness and the fact that you had your Mamaw’s nose. I watched your daddy hold you. My heart cracked open with a mother’s love.

I still cry Benjamin. Sometimes softly, tears barely spilling over. Sometimes with great racking sobs. We love you very much and – oh god – wish you were here with us. But you know that – I know you do. We don’t get the gift of your smile, your laugh, your boy-ness as  you learn to crawl, walk, dance, kick a soccer ball. We don’t get to watch you explore the world, hear your voice, learn who you are. The gifts you left us with are of a different sort, based in faith, belief, love and the world of spirit. With your death, you’ve asked us to live our best lives. We are doing our best to answer that call.

Watch over your big sister, my sweet son. She wanted a little brother. She wants a mama and daddy who aren’t sad anymore. It’s been hard on all of us.

But I wouldn’t change it. I wouldn’t take the experience of you away. Not for a second.

I love you Ben. I always will. Wherever you are, my son, take good care.

with fierce love and a healing heart,

Mama.

Today at the park:

moms with little ones and swelling bellies

brand new baby with much bigger brother

little girl – maybe 7 or 8 – unable to walk, teeth clacking together, the sweetest smile

families of all shapes and sizes

and oh – my heart

baby in stroller parked by parents who clearly are not sober

but not yet as high as they have been

or will be again.

I wonder at the hands we are all dealt

I lift my heart in awe

hang my head in sorrow

vow to do what I can to make the world

a kinder, gentler place.

*****

My friend overseas whose husband was just diagnosed with cancer has started writing – beautifully – in English – thankfully – about her new, altered life. If you feel so moved, please visit. Be a witness for her too.

We are all in this together. This life.

Lying in the bed, in the middle of the night, I realized I am terrified of getting pregnant.

A number of the baby lost mamas who blog and whose babies died in the last year are pregnant again. I am happy for them. I wish them peace as they negotiate the immense fear of pregnancy after loss. I look forward to the news of their rainbow babies being born, healthy, perfect…alive.

I do not want to be one of them. Not yet.

First, I think my knees, ankles and feet would up and quit if I put on another twenty or thirty pounds. I am not physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually ready to attempt to bring another child into the world. It might be different if I didn’t already have a live child. Maybe.

All I have to do is think about the blood. I could have died.

At my six week follow up to the surgery, the doctor looked at me and said, give yourself a year, then decide.

Wise man.

I am not ready. Getting pregnant, adopting, having an only child – all of these thoughts make me ache.

I am not ready to decide.

Sometimes there are no words other than

I miss our son.