Three Years Gone

There's no easy way to start this post. I've written four sentences and deleted them. It's always so much easier to write these entries in my head. The minute I sit down to put my thoughts in order, I can't think of a thing to write.

And so it goes.

Today is a death day. One of my hardest three days of the year - the day my grandmother died, two days later when we lost John and in October when we lost Drew. I could write about the stunning pain, the overwhelming grief that is rivaled only by my overwhelming love for my lost boys, and the continued struggle for emotional solid ground.

But I think today I want to write about John. We found out I was pregnant on Halloween. I wish I could say I was the cutesy girl who did something stupid like write "I'm Pregnant!" or "You're going to be a Dad!" on the bottom of my husband's coffee cup. But I wasn't. I was stunned. I barged into the bathroom and threw the pregnancy test at my husband. "TWO LINES!" was all I could say.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

That night we walked around my in-laws' neighborhood with our daughter, holding our secret and smiling at each other. Such happiness.

After a difficult few months with my ex and custody issues with our daughter, I was at our local Chocolate Festival the night before the anatomy scan. I finally felt confident enough to tell a few people that I was pregnant. It felt good to talk about it. How sad to have to tell them all a few days later that John wasn't going to live.

I imagine my sweet oldest son was blonde. A bit stocky like his dad, with a quiet way and natural curiosity. I imagine that he would have idolized his big sister and marveled at our pets. I think of him as even tempered and well behaved, a joy to have around - much like his sister is at every age.

I remember the emotional struggle of carrying John - I was going through a lot and stupidly thought I would have time to bond with my baby - time later when I could focus on him. That's the trouble, right? You always think you have time.

I remember the anatomy scan. The stoic woman who started the exam - the fight with the insurance company to get another more targeted scan. I remember my husband crying, I remember feeling like I couldn't fall apart because he needed me - we were losing his son. I remember driving to my in-laws' house because I didn't know where else to go. I remember reading the signs on the highway and thinking, "Read something. That's how you'll know if this is a nightmare or not. You can't read in your dreams."

But I could read those signs. It wasn't a nightmare. It was the beginning of everything ending.

I remember going in for the surgery. I remember feeling his last kick. I remember thinking that it was his last kick. I remember the nurse closing the curtain and saying to the other nurse, "She's so strong. I don't know anyone with such strength."

A remember waking up in a room full of beds. I was crying. I knew immediately what had happened. I realized immediately that he was gone.

Today we went to the cemetery - just me and my husband. There is an abundance of snow here in Ohio, so we couldn't even get close to John's stone. We held each other and I cried. I told my husband that even though my pain has defined me - and not in all the best ways - I would never wish to take away the experience of John and Drew. They are my sons. The own the core of me. I love them fiercely. I see them everywhere I go. When I falter - as I so often do -  I feel their presence pulling me through the pain.

A death day. Three years gone. Oh, how my heart grieves for my little lost boys. I love you both so much, wherever you are.