Time Heals All Wounds. Or so they tell me. Every year September 17th should get easier. It should get easier because, after all, time heals all wounds. Right? RIGHT?
Let me tell you. I do not believe time will heal me. I think time definitely makes the day-to-day easier. But healing. I just don't know.
From the moment I woke up, until the moment I laid my head on my pillow to go to sleep, I was sad about Cole's birthday. Undeniably broken-hearted. I tried to laugh. And I did. I tried to take my mind off of everything by engaging with my friends. And I did. But, still, all day I felt on the edge of a breakdown. It just goes to show: You absolutely never know what a person is going through. I often forget that behind every smile, everyone is fighting their own battles. And I'm no different.
But, his birthday, for me, is different. He doesn't get phone calls from my family wanting to sing to him; he doesn't get birthday parties planned in his honor; he doesn't get adorable texts wanting to wish him a wonderful day. And that's hard. For me. The more time passes, the harder it gets for me because people move on. And I get it. I swear I do. I wonder how many anniversaries and birthdays I haven't acknowledged for my friends who were grieving. I am certain I have missed plenty.
This year, for the first time ever, I went to work. That had it's own challenges. Then, for the first year ever, aside from one text from Jen and a card from Jeanne, no one mentioned it. I want to be very clear. I love all my friends and family and it isn't their job to keep track of the days I might be sad. It's not their responsibility at all. I only mention it to give an insight into the reminder we all need - that you never know what someone is going through.
Really there's nothing left to be said about September 17th for me that hasn't already been said. My heart is broken. Four years ago, I eagerly awaited the nurse to wrap up my second child and hand him over to me. I held my precious son in my arms and tried, desperately, to memorize every single thing about him. His cheeks; his nose; his precious five fingers and toes. I smiled at the beautiful clothes that some very sweet women had sewed just for tiny babies like him. I held him up to my face to feel the warmth I knew I'd never feel again. I cried and cried over him. I rocked him in my arms and sobbed some more. I cried to my husband that it wasn't fair we had to decide when to let him go. I literally gasped for air as the nurse came and took my son out of my arms and walked him away, saying, "Okay sweetheart. It is time to go." I cried even more when we arrived at the funeral home and were asked to pick an urn for him on a designated shelf for babies his size. I sobbed the first night after we received his ashes and had him in the house, home with us for the very first time. Tears streamed down my face as I read the obituary we wrote for him in our local newspaper...
Happy fourth birthday, my sweet sweet boy. It may be sad for us here on earth, but I know it is a celebration for you, my little love.