Holy shit. It has been three years since my baby died.
I can tell you truthfully that I didn’t think I would survive to write those words. The moments and days and weeks after his death, I didn’t believe that I could live for that long. The pain was so exquisite – it was surreal. It didn’t feel possible that life would happen again.
On February 4th, 2017, our 19 month old son, Rory, wandered away unnoticed while the family was cleaning out and organizing a garage. He was surrounded by people – five grownups and three big siblings that doted on his every move – and yet he was able to quietly head in a direction that no one noticed.
It may have been two minutes, it may have been ten, but as soon as his absence was registered, I immediately ran for the lake. I found Rory’s body floating a few feet from the shoreline, and pulled him out of the water. My heart still aches at the day, my bones still feel the chill of the water. 911 was called while I performed CPR on my tiny, cold child – the world had stopped, and nothing existed anymore but my hands on his chest, and my breath in his lungs.
The human beings – angels – that tried to save Rory gave us 24 hours with him. We were able to hold him, smell him, stroke his hair and whisper all the words to him; we were able to say good bye. You can read the entire thing here.
It’s been three years, and those words are just as shocking to me as the words, “my son died.” They are not meant to be said. It took me ages to be able to say them without a knife in my gut. He is gone, and that has become normal. In our day to day life, we have three children, and for the most part it’s easier that way. We don’t tell strangers about our dead baby anymore – it’s too painful and shocking to see the hurt on their faces, the surprise and the tears when they realize.
But at home, when we are comfortable and safe and no one is looking, we love and remember our boy. Not a day goes by that we don’t say his name, or talk about something he loved, or watch a video of his preciousness and soul. Not a day goes by that we don’t think about what might of been, how old he would be, how our life would look if he were still here. Not a single day goes by that we don’t see some sign of him, some swirl or bird or word or note; something that lets us know he’s not truly gone – just different.
My heart is stretched thin across two worlds, forever here with my living children, and yet not. Aching, yearning across time and space to see and feel him again. Impatient for the day when we are reunited, and yet filled with the endless patience that is required in order to stay here and live any kind of life worth living.
And this is the most surprising part: there is life again. Standing at the side of the bed where Rory lay, heart no longer beating, I could not fathom that there would be life again. It didn’t happen quickly, nor easily… but slowly, and painfully, and powerfully – our hearts and souls came back to this place, back to cleaning and cooking and working and struggling and loving. Back to joy. Back to disappointment. Back to ecstasy. Back to regular, boring old sadness. All of normal life was ours to savor again, with a new angle, a new facet that did not exist before: this life is truly sacred. Short. Powerful. Beautiful. Sudden. This life, our lives, YOUR lives… they are a gift, and the miracle of it can be seen in all things, at all times, without exception.
And so, again, here we are – three years later. There has been suffering and grief beyond words. There has been pain beyond counting. There have been tears and worries and fears. But now, and hopefully forever foward, there is miraculous life. One lived, not in spite of Rory’s death, but in honor of it. Daily reminders that he was here, he lived, he mattered, and he will not ever be forgotten – until we see him again.
One day closer.
