It's the 4th. I hate this day. I know how I should feel, but I just don't. It's his birth date, and I should reflect on this day with joy, thinking of the happiness that was whisked into my life at 7:54 a.m.
But for me, and probably for many more people who have outlived their children, their birth date breeds anger.
On April 4th, I was peering into a hospital bassinet, touching his fuzzy hair and kissing his soft cheeks, repeating "Hi Mama's Mans. I'm your Mama. Hi Isaiah. I've been waiting so long to meet you!"
Only to be peering into a casket for the first time, on May 4th, where I held his hand so tightly that when I let go, I noticed I accidentally made it turn purple.
Where I couldn't even look at his hair because they made me cover it with a hat so I didn't see the autopsy incisions.
Where I almost threw up when I kissed his cheeks because he was cold and hard.
Where my quiet whispers to him quickly turned into loud groans and screams, begging him to wake up. "Just wake up. Please wake up, Mama's Mans. This doesn't look like him. What did they do to him? Why doesn't he have a diaper on? He needs a diaper."
The "mom" in me couldn't let go, even when my mind rationalized that he really didn't need a diaper...but what was worse is that it meant that he didn't need me.
I have one month to prepare for his 1st birthday. There will be no decorations, no party, no smash cake, no pictures. Just the hazy memory of an infant's face, and a release of some sort, in his honor. There will be a month long struggle taking place in my mind, half of it thinking of what I should be doing, and the other half repeating that this IS what I'm supposed to be doing. This is my plan, my life, my story...I just wish I had known before that I'm not the Author, but only the supporting role.
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