Today is my youngest son’s fifth birthday.  It’s definitely an emotional day.  A birthday, especially one of a child, is ususally a happy time, an exciting day filled with gifts, toys, smiles and laughter.  There will be some of that today.  But it’s all a little bittersweet.  Because my baby isn’t here.  He’s in heaven.

It’s hard for me to believe that it’s really been five years since we had Christian.  Like all the births of my children, I remember it like it was yesterday.  He was born on a brilliant February day.  February in Southern California is hit or miss – it can be rainy and overcast or surprisingly gorgeous.  The latter is what we had.  I remember, after a sleepless and emotional night, how thankful I was for such a gorgeous day.  He was born at 7:03, but life had already left his tiny body.  It was odd to not hear the cry of a newborn baby.  Just the stillness.  My mother had flown in late the night before, and was in the delivery room with me along with my husband and the hospital staff.  Three of my closest girlfriends had spent hours sitting and talking with me the night before, bringing me magazines and candy and providing me both companionship and comfort.  I remember in the early dawn of February 27th, how I was finally dilated and the doctor said I could start pushing that I finally broke down sobbing.  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I told her.  “I’m not ready.”  I wasn’t ready – how do you get ready to meet your child and bid him farewell?  I’ll never forget her kind response.  “Just take your time,” she told me.  “Relax and it’s not an issue.  We don’t have to do this until you’re ready.”  I took half an hour and then it began.  I knew he needed to be born.  I knew that his heartbeat had already faded.  It was one of those things that you will never be ready for, not really.  I closed my eyes and began the process.

Once Christian David was born it was calming and peaceful to hold him.  He had gorgeous blue eyes and dark hair that was swept up under the little beanie the nurse put on him.  His little face was blue since he wasn’t breathing.  I didn’t care.  He was still my son.  We kept him for several hours, holding him and keeping him close.  We had him blessed by a priest.  We let all his brothers hold him, with his face covered.  I didn’t want them to remember him that way.  The nurses took pictures of him and did little footprints of his feet for me.  We kept him until I knew I needed to give him back.  I recall them taking me to a hospital room on a different floor, away from all of the babies.  For that I was grateful.  I remember it was almost noon and I kept thinking “I really want to watch What Not to Wear.”  In the middle of all the emotions and heartache, for just a bit, I needed something that was normal.  I watched my show and slept.

Five years later, the healing continues.  Years one and two were extremely difficult.  Years three and four were markedly better.  But there is something about turning 5 that is such a milestone.  He would have been starting kindergarten this Fall.  I have an entire set of false memories in my head.  Mental pictures of him running around in footed pajamas, playing with the dog, and opening gifts on Christmas Day along with his brothers.  All these memories that I don’t really possess, as they never happened, but pictures in my mind of what might have been had he lived.  I think these thoughts and pictures will always run through my head.  Sometimes I turn around and feel like someone is missing.  But then, he is missing.  At least from my life.

I think that’s the hardest part – missing him.  As I walked through the cemetery this morning, after bringing him a ballon and flowers, I just prayed to Heavenly Father that he would relay to my child how much he is loved.  By his extended family here, his immediate family, and especially his mother.  A mother’s love is forever – it is strong and true and perfect.  This, I know.   And until the time when I can embrace him myself, my sweet little Christian, we will continue to be, two worlds, one family.  Love is forever.

Mom