What happens when you die?

"Undetermined." That's the answer I have to live with for the rest of my life as to why my baby is no longer here. In the numerous pages that go into vivid detail on his autopsy, all that stands out is that it repeatedly states "no abnormalities." I guess it's not that I really wanted them to find something wrong with him, I just wasn't expecting the reason to be that there is absolutely no reason behind his death. Not a single thing wrong with any part of him, not a single toxin in his body, nothing. My perfect little baby was taken from me forever and even after examining each and every inch of him, no one can tell me why. This makes me want to scream and throw the most awful and childlike tantrum you could ever imagine. It's not fair and I am so bitter and angry at life and people. I can't stand it when people talk about how much their life sucks and how bad of a day they've had. I know I have to understand that everyone handles things differently and that things that might seem minuscule to me seem awful to others, but I lost a child and just received a 14 page packet on what they did to my precious Bosty after dying, only to tell me that I will never know why. I promise you, you don't know just how painful life can be. 

I didn't think I was going to post anything about his autopsy results, but after reading through them I am once again left sitting here with such a rage inside of me that it is impossible to keep it all in my head. I don't want anyone to know what going through this feels like, but I do want the world to be angry with me, and I want to know that people understand that SIDS is real and it needs to be talked about. In all of the blogs I've read written by other parents who have also unfortunately lost a child to this mysterious monster, I have found that a lot of us share the same anxiety of telling people that our child died from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, because it doesn't actually explain anything and raises a lot of questions. What does that mean? What happened? What actually caused the child to die though? We do not know, and the one hope we had of finding answers left us with nothing but more questions.

So after receiving this devastating blow of being told I won't ever know why he died, the only question I can answer is what happens when you die? A lot of things happen when you die. People cry. A lot. People contemplate on a daily basis if they could have done anything to change your fate. People miss you. People dream of what it would be like if you were still here. People ache for your presence, even just one more time. I would give anything to have even two more minutes with my son. I have also found that behind each of those answers, more questions lurk, because what REALLY happens when you die? I have never been so eager to know. I wish I would have been more set in my beliefs so I had some hope that I could be absolutely positive I will see my son the day that I physically leave this earth. Of course I hope more than ever that heaven exists and that my sons beautiful face will be the first thing I see when I open my own eyes on the other side. At the end of his funeral as we were walking out behind his casket I chose to have the song "I'll Be Missing You" playing, mainly because of the part that says "In the future, I can't wait to see if you open up the gates for me." That statement holds very true in my heart. If there is a God, I hope he understands my pain well enough to know that is what I will need, for my Bosty to be the one to greet me. I sit here and wonder also if people age in heaven, or do they stay the same age as when they died? In many ways I hope he will be the exact same as when he left. A chubby two month old with a huge crooked smile and messy hair, but then I worry about the fact that I will probably be an old woman. Much, much older than I am now. Will he know who I am? At the same time though, I think regardless of my age when I die, that my soul in some way will revert to what I am now and Boston will recognize me as his 22 year old mom, because a huge part of me certainly died the same day that he did. When I join him I hope that we can start right where we left off and that I will be able to do all the things that I no longer have the chance to do with him here, like hear him laugh for the first time, help him learn how to sit up, to crawl, to walk, and talk. I wish there was some way to get a free pass to heaven for an hour, actually even for just 5 minutes, so I could make sure that my baby is happy and okay. That's the worst part, not knowing.

"You're so wonderful to think of, but so hard to be without."