Four Isn't Just A Number

Mama's Mans, 

It's been four years since I nervously waddled into the doors at Health Park. Luggage in tow and a video camera on record behind me, I laughed "Get ready world, when I come back out these doors, I'll be a Mama of FOUR!" 

You wouldn't be able to tell from the video that we had actually already walked up to the hospital, but in my attempts to document your life from the very beginning, I requested we walk allll the way back to the truck because I forgot to have the camera rolling. Once we arrived inside, I held my arms outstretched over my head and stood under the sign that read "Birthing Suite". My heart aches when I see that beaming smile of mine, remembering the anticipation of meeting you...wishing I could tell that girl in the picture to press pause for awhile, wishing she knew how quickly twenty five days is here and gone. 

I felt like a seasoned professional in the pre op. If there was one thing I knew, it was how to have babies. I knew what to make them aware of. I knew what to ask for. I had no idea that the next time I rushed into a hospital, I wouldn't need a video to replay those moments that would be forever etched into my memory. I felt so lost in those moments. I didn't know what to ask or think.  I didn't know the look on the doctor's face would be so grim. I didn't know the nurses would scatter and refuse to make eye contact. 

The first time I held you, my world stood still. Excitement of new life was buzzing through the room as the nurses worked. But they faded into the background when they placed you in my arms and it was just you and me, sweet boy.  "I'm your Mama. It's me, Isaiah. Mama's Mans, I've been waiting for you." were the first words that I spoke as I kissed your forehead and breathed in the smell of new life.  Twenty five days later, I placed a chair in the hallway in front of Trauma Room 1 and while law enforcement stood guard on either side of your doorway, I once again felt like we were the only two people in the world as I yelled to you "I'm right here. Mama's Mans, I'm right here! It's your Mama. It's me. Wake up, baby. Please, baby boy, PLEASE!" When they finally gave me the ok to enter the room, feelings of terror jolted me to the core. I wanted desperately to hold you, but as I stood over your tiny body, the look of death so real upon your face, I inched back into the corner and I couldn't bring myself to pick you up. You weren't you...and in that moment I knew that I would never be me.

And that was really the only thing I knew for sure that day. 

If you had never lived, then you would have never died. And if you never died, then I would have never have seen how heartbreakingly beautiful life is. 

I recently saw a quote which read "I wish I could go back in time, not so I could change anything, but because some moments are worth reliving." You are worth reliving. 

I can't go back and scoop you into my arms like I have dreamed of so many many times, but I can move forward and wake up each day reliving April 4th; with outstretched arms, I can find joy - knowing that the sunrises and sunsets until I see your face are numbered; and to make the time in between them count.

Happiest Fourth, Mama's Mans. 

Even in your absence, I love you more every day.