Late at night I wake up and just lay in bed thinking about you. I can hear your sisters softly snoring (and your dad loudly snoring) and it breaks my heart because I don’t hear or see you. People say that you’re always near me and I want to believe that, but I don’t feel it.
I just don’t understand why you had to go. I don’t understand why I’m left with only memories and why I’m faced with being pregnant all over again, having a baby all over again, trusting all over again. I’m certain that my heart has enough love for baby Zoe but the truth is, I just want you. I didn’t really have the chance to be your mom. I didn’t have time to mess up, to make you happy, to disappoint you, to dress you up, to scold you for being a rowdy little boy, to teach you not to pick on your sisters, to hug you when you were hurt.
I have 26 days worth of memories and a lifetime of pain, suffering, and searching for peace. I mean, honestly, that’s not what people want when they leave the hospital with a healthy baby. They trust that they have begin their journey raising their child and they will get to watch them grow old. They dread the reality that someday their child would have to say goodbye to them, not the other way around.
How do I do that? How do I renew my faith that my children, including Zoe, will get to grow old one day? I can’t. I know the reality of losing a child and I know that life isn’t promised. Yes, eternal life, blah, blah, blah…but I was really pretty set on having at least 40 years with you.
Late at night, when my mind is wandering through the shadows of my world and yours, I find doubt in every crevice. I’m searching for hope, trust, faith, and most importantly, peace.
I love you baby boy.