One year ago today I sat holding my son in my arms. He was perfect in every way, just small. And dead. Whereas hours earlier he was alive in my belly. It seemed unreal that it could be 'over'. All the weeks of hoping and wishing for 'things to be okay'...ending in 5 hours of labour, 2 pushes and a grand total of 54 minutes of life. How did that end up being my life? How did it end up being his? How was I going to go on from that point? My son was dead. MY son was dead. My SON was dead.
Over the past year that fact has become more ingrained in me. More a part of me. It doesn't feel foreign anymore to say "Oh, yes, my son Aidan died at 54 minutes of age". Or "yes, we lost a baby" or "Our first child died". It doesn't crush me the way it used to. The edges have been worn smooth. I don't go a day (an hour?) without thinking about him, but I do go days, even weeks, without crying. I did what I could this year to 'move on' from his death. Both my husband and I did. We got back out in the world. I got a new job, met new people. We went to movies and out for dinner. We hung out with friends. We went to family gatherings. We did it because what else were we going to do? We couldn't help Aidan anymore, but we could help ourselves. They were all hard things to do at first, but in the end we often felt better for going than not.
I guess what I would like to say to people is: I'm okay, Brian's okay. But it is not okay that Aidan died. That is never going to be okay. It will always hurt and I will always miss him. Miss the life we should have had, the life he should have got to live.
I miss you my little peanut. My Aidan. I love you. Happy Birthday.
Thank you to all of you out in blog land that are thinking of my boy today, or who sent me a picture, something in the mail or a kind note. It is very appreciated.