9 weeks

Today has been one of the hardest days yet. I'm not sure why. I will never be the same, and I don't think that very many people understand that. It is very hard to go through something that is incomprehensible, even to me. There is no manual to tell you how to handle losing a child. I do not understand, I won't ever, I will not find peace, and I will never accept Boston's death. There is a quote that says "When a child is born, so is the mother." That is very true. Yes, I had already given birth to one child, but when Boston was born, a new me was also. Twice the work, twice the time, twice the love. So, when Boston died, I did too. The mother I had just became went with him and while I am ever so grateful for his big brother, half of me is literally missing. The parts of me that existed before Boston are still there, but when he was born the already present parts were moved to one side to make room in the other half of me just for my little fatboy. That half of me was meant to be filled with a lifetime of memories, that half of me was ment to hold him, to love him, and was solely dedicated to him. When my son was pronounced dead and the time came to hand him to the detective and leave, I did not just place my son in his arms, but half of myself. It is kind of like I'm having to learn how to walk, talk, and breathe again without all of the things I need to do so, and I don't even want to because it sucks and it hurts and it is just so hard. I know how much better life was and how much happier I was and could be with him here. There are no words to accurately describe how difficult this is. Challenges and new beginnings are typically started to bring yourself to a better place, this challenge does not bring that for me. I am being forced by life to keep going and learning how to walk, talk, and breathe again is just a means of survival, but a very reluctant one. I love Boston's big brother so much, but they balanced me. The half of me that's left wants and needs to take care of Quinton, but without the other half it is now a scary process and nothing works right anymore. I have said it many times since he left and will many more, I am lost. Literally lost. In grocery stores, at work, at home. I can't seem to find where I'm supposed to go because what is left of me just wants to search for what use to be there, but it can't and won't ever be found. On May 24th of last year I found out I was pregnant with him. On May 24th of this year Boston will have been gone for as long as he was here. Time can be so cruel. The 68 days with him flew bye. The days without him have been long and grueling but yet I am still shocked each time another Tuesday rolls around or the calendar brings yet another month since he left me. This date is different though. I have never wanted to stop time so badly. I do not want the 24th to come. I only had 68 days with him but he is still so alive in my heart. That date to me is like a monster. One that at first represented new life. Now it just taunts me. It is a terrible reminder that I am not in control and the legacy of my sons 68 days on this earth are being replaced with 68 days without him and that brings yet another giant wave of terrifying emotions that I didn't even know we're possible, and that I would give anything not to know. I constantly wonder if I am doing enough to keep his memory alive but he is the only person I want to answer that question. I hope you're watching, Boston. I hope you hear each time I speak your name, hope my constant thoughts of you make you smile, I hope each time I play your song you rest easier, and most of all I hope you feel all the love I have for you. This love was meant just for you and no matter how much easier it would be to give if you were here, I won't ever stop and it will never weaken. That is a promise. I miss you so, so much. I constantly worry about you. I'm not sure if that sounds crazy since the worst has already happened, but it's not over for me and won't be for a very long, long time. I am your mommy and I pray whatever angels surround you know just how special you are, because I did and if they get to have you instead of me, they better be doing a damn good job. I'm not usually one to think that what happens is always what's meant to be, but I know that I was meant to be your mom and I will do so proudly for the rest of my life. I love you Chubbles, until the end of time. And even after that. 

My mom, she tells a lot of lies. She never did before. 

But from now until she dies,

She'll tell a whole lot more.

Ask my mom how she is,

And because she can't explain, 

She will tell a little lie 

Because she can't describe the pain. 

Ask my mom how she is, 

She'll say that she's alright. 

If that's the truth, then tell me, 

Why does she cry each night? 

Ask my mom how she is, 

She seems to cope so well. 

She doesn't have a choice, you see. 

Nor the strength to yell. 

Ask my mom how she is, 

"I'm fine, I'm well, I'm coping." 

For God's sake mom, just tell the truth. 

Just say your heart is broken.

She will love me all her life. 

I sure loved her all of mine, 

But if you ask her how she is 

She'll lie and say she's fine.

I am here in Heaven, 

I cannot hug her from here. 

If she lies to you, don't listen. 

Hug her and hold her near.

On the day we meet again, 

We'll smile and I'll be bold. 

I'll say, "You're lucky you got here mom, 

With all the lies you told"

-Author Unknown

Hell on earth

This is all so wrong. When am I going to stop thinking my son is coming back? His death is all too real yet at the same time I find myself thinking that at some point someone is going to give him back to me. That he will just reappear in my life and I will be able to breathe again. I cannot believe its been two months. How did I get here and where have the days gone? I replay his life and death constantly in my head. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to hate every day I wake up to realize this nightmare is not imaginary. This pain is ugly. It's draining and cruel and no matter how much I know I don't deserve to be dealing with this or how good of a person I try to be just doesn't matter, because it won't bring him back. There is no hallelujah at the end of this road. No moment that I will finally be filled with happiness because I do not ever get to feel what it's like to hold my son again. I have read that parents that lose their children say their arms literally ache for them and it is so true. My arms are starting to forget just how wonderful it felt to have him there and they are screaming at me to go pick him up, but I can't. I'm lost. It's been quite ironic in the most awful of ways to find out that without my child, who was to young to do anything on his own, I no longer know how to function. It's not like he could give me advice or tell me what I needed to do, I just knew. Now that's he's gone I don't know how to do anything and all I want is to ask him how I'm supposed to keep going with out him. When you have a baby you don't really have time to think, you just do what your supposed to do. Feed them, hold them, cuddle with them, calm them, talk to them, and love them. So what am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to fill my days with? I have really struggled with getting myself to realize that I have to go on with life knowing that everything I'm doing isn't what I should be doing, because it would all be so different if he were here like he should be. It's truly terrifying and awful to spend each moment thinking of how wrong everything is. I want to relive his life and my life with him. If I had a remote I would replay those 68 days over and over again until I die. I truly loved being his mom and watching Quinton be such an amazing big brother. When I think about him I imagine what it would be like if I could have him back. Probably like one of those scenes in a movie where they run full force to embrace someone. 

That's all I want to do, run to him and tell him how awful this has all been and how much it hurts to even breathe now that he isn't. I have been sentenced to a life filled with pain, grief, and utter confusion. I just want my son, but no one can give him back to me and it hurts like hell.

"There are all kinds of love in this world, but never the same love twice."

"A mother is not defined by the number of children you see, but by the love she holds in her heart."

This week has been one from hell. I've had people ask me how I do it, and tell me that they're proud, and while it is ever so kind to say that, I am silently screaming on the inside. Can't I just be a normal mom? One that has both of her children with her and goes unrecognized? I don't want to have a dead child. I don't want people to be proud that I somehow still get out of bed each morning. I want to go back to normal. Normal as in both of my children falling asleep next to me each night. Normal as in waking up with Boston here, not having to dream of what he would look like. Normal as in not being anxiety stricken each moment of the day staring at the clock knowing that when 3:46 PM comes, I die inside a little more each time because that is when I was told my son could not be saved. When I think of the day he died and his funeral it's like I am watching from someone else's eyes. That wasn't me was it? I'm not that mom standing over her baby's casket, am I? I'm not the mom walking out of the hospital without her child? I'm not the mom driving away from the church where her baby's body is parked out front in a hearse? I'm not the mom going to pick up her sons ashes? Am I?
Oh, but I am. It was me. It was my son. I am now the mom that cringes when I walk past baby items at the store. I am now the mom that has to remind herself to breathe when seeing other mothers out in public with their two children. I am the mother who wants to cry each time I pick my son up from daycare, because I should be bringing two home, not just one.

I wish more than anything someone could send me a picture, just drop one down from heaven and let me see what my little fatboy would look like. I guess I have rare moments of very brief "strength" and feel like there's no way this pain will always be this intense, but then I think of the fact that my only hopes of seeing him will be when I die. I'm not really afraid of death anymore. I am constantly afraid of things happening to my loved ones, but knowing that I will die someday no longer frightens me. The scary part is life until then. What if I don't die until I'm 90? That would be 68 years without my son. 68 birthdays that would come and go without him here. Decades upon decades of holidays that I will spend all too aware that there should be one more precious face there to celebrate with. I never get to buy my son a birthday present. I never get to celebrate his first Christmas. I never get to hear him laugh. I don't care how many times I've been told that there's no way I could have known, or that I couldn't have done anything differently. I WANT A REDO. I want to go back to March 17th and just do something different. I don't even know what because it started like any other normal day, but I feel like there has to be something, even if it was the most minuscule thing, that could have been done to save me from the constant torture my life is now filled with. If there is one thing I know, it's that babies are not supposed to die.

I am very nervous for Wednesday. We are having a tree planted in his memory and I am going to bury some of his ashes with it. While I want to do this to honor him, I feel like I did when waiting for the day of his funeral to arrive. I know he's dead and all that's left are his ashes, but I don't want to put my baby in the ground. He does not belong there. That's why I decided to get him cremated. At first the thought of him being cremated made me feel like I myself was dying, but then I thought about how hard getting him buried would be. I did not want to go to bed each night knowing my sons body was somewhere besides home and all alone. Not that I don't understand other parents decisions, because I do, and there is no right from wrong when deciding where your child will "rest." I just know that each time I look outside it will scare me. Is he cold? What about when it's snowing or raining or storming? It's just not fair. WHY ISNT HE HERE WITH ME!? Who can I scream at and let know just how much living without him hurts? Every day I think it can't get any worse, but then I wake and the calendar marks another days start without the boy I thought I couldn't live with out.

As I was writing this I found out that a very close family friends nephew fractured his skull and is under going brain surgery. On Friday my sons grandpa died in a tragic motorcycle accident. Last week my grandpa was admitted to the hospital. On Tuesday someone that many of my friends knew committed suicide. On Thursday a precious little girl who's mother I know joined my son as an angel baby. When is enough, enough!? I always knew that people die, but I am so sick of death lurking right around the corner. I pray that Bosty is with my friends nephew, and that the ones no longer here embrace him for me. Life is far more fragile than I ever knew. I always thought I was someone who is optimistic, but that is no longer true. Tragedy has paralyzed me, and I don't think a day will ever come that worry doesn't rob me of joy.

There has been one question that seems to be stuck in my mind lately; Why didn't the world come running when my son died? People flood the news and social media with outrageous and senseless acts like " The Kylie Jenner Lip Challenge", celebrities doing minuscule every day things that no one should even care about, fights between reality "TV stars", rioting and "white verse black crime" that eggs on the racism that shouldn't even exist by pointing out race in any and every situation they can. So I am left here wondering if people all over the world can make huge deals out of ridiculous things THEN WHY DIDNT THEY COME RUNNING WHEN MY SON DIED? Or when any child does !? People don't seem to think twice about sharing and advocating their supposedly credible opinions about what some celebrity wore or why it's okay for people in Baltimore to destroy their city to prove a point because they've been "treated unfairly." Want to know what's unfair? I had to watch my beautiful son die. I have to live the rest of my life without him in a world that cares more about idiotic materialistic fads than the unexplainable deaths of children, and the explainable ones caused by abuse and neglect. The world pours over all of these fixable situations that wouldn't exist if each and every person on this earth realized that being genuinely good hearted and loving is far easier than being heartless and

narrow minded.

There's a cure for racism. There's not a cure for SIDS, or childhood cancers (except for chemotherapy which is grueling and harmful at the same time) or the far too long list of childhood diseases that claim the lives of way too many precious sons and daughters all over America and the world each year. So if you want to talk about unfair, why don't you talk about the forgotten mothers and fathers that get up each morning after having their child taken from them in a casket. If you want to get mad, get mad at the fact that people like the kardashians have millions upon millions of dollars at their disposal, but there's not enough funding or publicity to research and find cures to save children from dying. If you want to share something, share a picture of a child that's passed away because I promise you the only thing bereaved parents have to hold on to is the hope that their loved ones, friends, family, acquaintances, and the rest of the world do not let the fact that their child DID exist go unnoticed. Children are the future, help save them instead of contributing to the world falling apart. I didn't get to save my son, but I will spend the rest of my life trying to save anyone else from knowing what that feels like.

"The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude." - Washington Irving, The Sketch Book.

Don't forget to remember me

A letter to my son. 

Dear Chubbles,

So, no one has waken me up from this awful nightmare. Each morning I wake up with out you and it tears me apart that you really are not right next to me like you should be. I miss the way holding you felt. Sure I could have another baby, but I don't want any other baby, I want YOU. I am permanently broken, but my need to make you proud has kept me from letting myself completely fall apart. Your memories hold me together, but they are not enough to lighten how unbelievably difficult it is to live without you. I put your play mat away today. It was hard. Each time I put anything of yours away, or move your stuff, I go through the same thought process as I did when I was in labor with you and having contractions. "This hurts like hell. Breathe. Hold on tight. It's okay to cry." But unlike when I was in labor, this pain does not have a happy ending. The only thing coming into my life this time is the finality of your death. I am just so angry. I'm angry that you don't get to turn into the amazing person I know you would have been. I'm angry that I no longer get to witness first hand how wonderful of a big brother you had. I am angry that my days are no longer filled with him constantly saying "Mom! You tell my baby brother I love him." And "Ok, now tell my baby brother he loves me." I am angry that he has to wonder where you are and that his questions feel like a big knife plunging through my heart because there is no answer I can give him except that you are an angel now, and that means you have a new home in the sky. I am angry about how this has affected your grandma, "papa", and the rest of our family. Most of all, I am angry that I have been completely robbed of my future. You are one of my two children but I do not get to watch you grow up. I am so lost as to how I am suppose to go back to only taking care of your brother. I can only sit here and imagine what you would be like and how our lives would be if you were still here. Much brighter and happier, that I do know. The day you died a constant storm was cast over my life. Terrifying black sky's threaten each moment of my day. People tell me that time will make it better, but that is like a weatherman telling people that the most awful of storms has hit, it will destroy all good things in it's path, it will not leave for years to come and once it does there will be everlasting damage, and the best they can hope for is that the sky might at least lighten to a dark dreary gray. I miss you so much, Boston. The sun will not shine for me until I see your beautiful face in front of me again.
 This Saturday you would have been a big 4 month old! I wonder how much chubbier you would be if you were still here. I wish so badly I could have at least heard you laugh before you left, or known if your eyes were going to turn brown like your dad's or stay blue like mine. I hope you know how much I love you, and that even though you aren't here you will always be an every day part of my life.

I constantly search for signs that you are with me. I know people say that usually when you stop searching, you find what you were looking for, but I will not give up. Not until I take my last breath and I pray that when I do you will be right there with me and as excited as I am to have you in my arms again. I couldn't keep you alive but the memories of you always will be. The fact that your life was brief will never change how significant it was. I believe you gave me your all, and I am so thankful and proud of you. The dreams I had for you did not come true, but that doesn't mean they've vanished, they've just changed. I use to dream of all the ways you would make me proud throughout your life, now I dream of all the ways I can make you proud. I pray you're watching, fatboy! Every breath I take is for you and your big brother. I will wait the rest of my life for my second chance with you, and when it arrives I promise you I will come running.

Death knows no boundaries, but neither does my love for you. I don't care how long it takes, Bosty, please meet me at the gates.

All my love, 

Mommy

"I have cried over the body of the person I love most." 

Nightmares

At times I have a lot to say about my son being gone and others my mind is blank, but the pain in my heart is consistent and overwhelming. It screams with each beat "I WANT MY BABY." I miss him so much, there are just no words to do the relentless ache I have for his presence any justice. I often find myself conflicted as to whether I want to scream, cry, or pack all I could possibly fit into my car and drive as far away as possible. Given the rage that is now an every day part of my life, I continue to shock myself with the fact that all I really do is lay in bed and stare off into the emptiness that should be filled with my son. I went out for the first time since Boston passed away last night. I'm very thankful for the close friends that were there with me. In ways it went better than expected, however, the thought never left my mind that I so much would have rather been at home with my Bosty. I don't want to be able to have the free time to "do what I want." I want my weekends to be filled with the precious time I had alone with him since his big brother stays with his dad on Fridays and Saturdays. Quinton absolutely adored Boston and was such an amazing big brother, but I always looked forward to the weekends and being able to just sit and enjoy my time with him without any interruptions. He completed me. After having him everything just felt right. My sons were the two halves that made me whole and now that he is gone there will never be anything that can fill that void. It is the most helpless feeling on earth knowing that there is nothing I can do to take that pain away. I can attempt to distract myself, but my heart will never beat the same. Instead of thumping with the consistent joy he brought into my life, it is now off beat and the fact that it still beats at all feels so horribly wrong. A lot of people have told me how strong I am, but they are wrong. I am weak, disoriented, and lost. The only way I could find my way out of the mess my life has become is if Boston was still here.

Up until a week or so ago when I was finally able to get his belongings back from the hospital, I slept with the sleeper I changed him out of before taking him to daycare that morning. Now that I have his blanket and the outfit he was wearing at the hospital, I sleep with them. It breaks my heart. Each night while I lay in bed with his stuff I beg him to come visit me in my dreams, and I literally mean beg. I also always say "Bosty, please come lay with mommy. I miss you." There has been a few times where I am quite positive that I truly felt him here with me, or that I will randomly smell his wonderful baby scent for a moment and feel like it is his way of letting me know that he is there. As far as dreaming of him goes, the ones I have had are devastating and far from what I hope for each night before I go to sleep. To save anyone reading this from the true morbid-ness that has invaded my dreams, I suppose I could sum them up with the fact that each time I have dreamt of him he is still dead, but instead of having him cremated I brought him home with me and am continuously angry at someone for moving or touching him because I'm afraid that he will break. I want these type of dreams to leave and never come back. I want to see my chubby spit bubble blowing Bosty, not the one that was taken from me in a casket. I am often angry with myself because regardless of how many times I watch the videos I have of him or go through his pictures trying to force the good memories into my brain, my mind has become some awful broken record that is stuck on the horrible ones of seeing him dead. At least at the hospital it still looked like him, besides the off color of his skin and how cold he was, but it was still him and just looked like he was sleeping. I am not at all trying to speak illy of the funeral home, they were very good to my family and I and I know they did the very best they could, but it just did not look like him. I'm not sure what I was expecting to walk in and see at his visitation, but I recall the sheer terror I felt the second I saw him because it was not the Bosty that I adore laying there in front of me. His cheeks were no longer the chubby ones that I loved so much, his eyes lids were sunken in, and his head was slightly off in shape. Even though it was so upsetting seeing him that way, I wanted so badly to bring him home with me. I wanted to grab him from his casket, run right out the door and keep him with me forever. It sounds incredibly crazy, but when we left his funeral the hearse was parked right out in front of the church with his casket in it and I literally had to talk myself out of trying to get it out and into my car. The following quote is from the article "Parental Grief And A SIDS Death" that I shared the link to in my last blog post.

"Probably the most stressful and anxiety-provoking act in human existence is the separation of a woman from her infant. The response to this, which humans share with most of the animal kingdom, is an overwhelming combination of panic, rage, and distress." -Ruskin, in Horchler and Morris, 1994, 16.

I would dismantle me to put you back together again. 

One month

Such a large part of me died the same day that Boston did, but unlike when people actually die and leave earth, I am still here and forced to deal with what is left. I know that even though he died that I am and always will be his mom, and that he will always be my baby, but what do you do with the parts of yourself that no longer get to actively take care of your child? I feel like I constantly carry them around like weights. I am tired and exhausted and I don't want to carry them. I want to carry him. I want to be tired because my son keeps me up at night, not because I can't get the image of him laying lifeless in front of me out of my head. I will never forget the moment I saw him that day at the hospital. It is burned into the back of my brain and it is one of those awful images that you don't want to look at, but can't get yourself to turn away from.

 I had just finished my last break at work and was about to walk back upstairs to take more calls. I pulled my phone out of my pocket one last time and at that moment I received a text from my mom that said "baby isn't breathing calling 911." She had just gotten there to take him to get his first shots. I called her right away. No answer. I called back and she was crying. I know no one would ever joke about that, but I really thought that when she answered she was going to say "Never mind. Sorry for the scare, he's fine." All I can really remember is that she said the ambulance was on the way and that I needed to tell work that I had to leave right away and meet them at the Emergency Room. I could hardly walk or talk, but somehow managed to get up the stairs and tell the guy in charge of our training class. My mom has apologized numerous times for telling me the way she did, but I'm actually thankful that it happened that way instead of a random person at work having to pull me aside and tell me what was going on. He offered to have someone drive me, which I probably should have agreed to, but drove myself. I talked to Boston's dad the whole way there and I remember both of us repeatedly saying that he would probably be fine by the time I got there.

I carry a dreadful amount of guilt with me because when I first arrived at the hospital I couldn't get myself to go in the room with him. I was half way in the door and there was 5 or 6 nurses surrounding him and I literally could not get myself to actually look at him. I had to be brought into a different room and a nurse sat me down and all I could really get to come out of my mouth was "Oh my God", "What the f**k", and "Why?" I was going to apologize for the language for anyone who might be offended reading it, but trust me there is no way to handle a situation like this gracefully.

I only truly recall a few parts of mine and the nurses conversation (some of my recollections might not even be correct as far as timing and order but this is how I remember it). I recall asking her quite a few times what was going on but they really weren't sure yet, so I finally asked her if his heart had stopped. She hesitated and then said "Your son is very sick right now. His heart stopped beating." She followed with something along the lines of they were doing everything they could to get it to start again. I also recall her mentioning that they were having someone come down for "pastoral care" which I believe I responded with another "Oh my God, why!?"and I think I asked her if that meant he was dead. She told me that it was "routine protocol" and didn't mean that they were done trying, but I think it was at that point that I knew it was unlikely my son would be coming home with me. I had her go check on him again. While she was out of the room my uncle who is a deacon at St Michael's Catholic Church walked in. I have no idea what was said at this point but then the nurse came back in and asked if I wanted to go into the room with him. I hesitated but knew that I needed to and my uncle came in with me. That was the first time I actually looked at him. It was the scariest and most awful moment of my life. He was a weird grayish color and was hooked up to a bunch of monitors. He also had a breathing tube in and was being given CPR. I could hardly stand up so they got me a chair and I sat right next to him. I was afraid to touch him, but a nurse told me I could hold his hand, so I did. He was already kind of cold. It was very hectic in the room. I remember them calling out each time they were checking for a pulse, but I watched the monitor the whole time and his heart rate stayed a flat line. My uncle was standing behind me and I remember hearing him say "Come on Boston, breathe." Our pleas to him were not answered because not long after someone asked for the time (it was 3:46PM) and a nurse grabbed my hand and kneeled down by my side and said "I'm so sorry." All I could respond with was "No" over and over again. They removed the cords that hooked him up to the monitor and for some reason I vividly remember them taking the breathing tube out of his mouth. Then they changed his diaper and handed him to me. He made a noise not long after being placed in my arms and I thought "Thank God! They were wrong!" but the nurse told me it was just the air leaving his body. 

I let a couple people know what had happened myself, and as the words were coming out of my mouth I kept thinking that it just had to be some awful dream. How could my baby really be gone? As my family and friends started showing up at the hospital I almost started to get angry, not at them, but I think each person that came started bawling the second they walked into the room and saw him, and it was just confirmation that it really was that bad. He was really dead and there was nothing I could do to change it. As a mother that is the most horrid feeling on earth. How come I couldn't fix him? That is what moms are for, that is what we do. When they cry, we fix it. When they are hungry, we fix it. When they are sad, mad, sick or whatever it may be, we are there to fix it. I am responsible for giving him life. I carried him for 9 months. I gave birth to him. I fed him. I loved him. I catered to his every need. Why couldn't I fix my baby when he needed it the most!? I knew that having a second child would have it's challenges, but this was not supposed to be one of them. You plan and plan and plan for 9 months for the things that having a child brings, but you don't ever consider that all of those plans can be brutally ripped from your life in a matter of minutes. Instead of making decisions about normal things, like what clothes my son would wear to daycare the next morning, all of the sudden I was being forced to decide if I wanted molds made of his hands and feet. I was hesitant at first when the nurses asked me, but only because I did not want him to leave my arms. It was also hard to let other people hold him, but for the same reason. I wanted to hold him. I wanted everything surrounding us to disappear, and just sit there and hug my baby. At some point my mom came back into the room and told me that I didn't have much longer with him, so I asked if we could be alone for awhile and everybody left the room. I talked to him and told him how much I love him, and how so so sorry I am that this happened. "Oh my Bosty" probably came out of my mouth at least 20 times as I kissed his forehead over and over again and ran my fingers through his crazy hair. And then the door opened and the detective and my mom walked in. I asked the detective how much longer I had with him and he said "Two minutes, because things are going to start happening and I would not want you to remember him that way." It took everything in me not make a run for it out of that hospital with my child in my arms. I am his mom I shouldn't have to be told how much time I have left with him. I should've had the rest of my life. When it was time for me to leave, the detective promised me that he would make sure that he was well taken care of. Handing him over was the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life. I kissed his forehead a couple more times after placing him in the detectives arms, and then I left. I didn't want to leave, I didn't want to get in my car, I didn't want to go home. I wanted to run back into the hospital and beg to stay with him, but I knew I couldn't, and so began my life without my son. 

It has been exactly one month since Boston died.  If anything, it keeps getting harder. At first everything is such a shock that you don't really realize how difficult living without your child is. I know people say it will get better, and maybe someday it will, but there is a huge part of me that never wants to be okay without him. Regardless, I will never be complete. It doesn't matter if it is 5 years from now or 20, there will be an emptiness in my life and heart that only he could fill. 

I came across this article last night and am glad I did. It's a long article and I don't expect very many people to read it, but I know that me losing a child makes many people uncomfortable in the sense that they're not sure what to say because it's hard to imagine what I'm going through. It provides a very accurate description and can give insight for those who are wondering. There is a section about a 3rd of the way down called "Parental Grief And A SIDS Death" that I highly recommend anyone and everyone to read if they have the chance. Here is the link http://athealth.com/topics/the-death-of-a-child-2/

"What a life to take, what a bond to break, 

I'll be missing you"

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."