I’d like to say that it’s getting easier. It’s not really. At some moments I actually think the days are getting harder. Even writing this blog has gotten more difficult. Some days I’m just at a loss for words. No sentence I formulate can really capture the way I feel inside. The people around me interpret my pain to only be the initial loss of my son–what happened the exact day that we found out he was gone. The further we move on from that day, the more they expect me to be “better.” As if I’ve fallen off a bike and scraped my leg or come down with a cold and just need a few days to heal. What they don’t realize is that every day that goes on without my son feels like the worst day of my life. Every time someone musters up the courage to ask how I’m doing I want to scream or cry. I know it sounds crazy, but I almost become resentful of the person who is caring enough to ask–because they put me in a position where I feel I can’t be honest. I have to hold back who I really am right now and how I truly feel. I think that they are hoping for the “on the surface” answer. I say “okay” or “hanging in there” because I don’t know what else to say. Some people, most people, don’t want the truth. They want to hear that I’m good, that I’m healing. If I head down the dark road of how I really feel I could say something that might tarnish the beautiful world that they live in–the world that is made up of their complete home–where they have the privilege of beginning and ending every day with their families. Where they get to read books to their children and kiss them goodnight. Not like me. My days begin and end with a picture of my son in a frame situated on my bedroom shelf. Some days I gaze at that photo of Rylan’s beautiful face and wonder if he was ever real. If my pregnancy was a dream. I struggle to remember how it felt to run my fingertips across his soft cheeks. I dream about what it would have been like to rock him to sleep. I think about what his cries might have sounded like–what the life in his eyes might have looked like beaming at me in the morning. I think about these things and more every single day. Sometimes they are comforting. A lot of times they make me full of sorrow. Other times just angry–so hurt that this is our reality. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel fair. How can you be expected to move through your days like everything is so-called normal when your life couldn’t feel more upside down? I feel like this loss has ruined so many things for us. I feel like we’re so alone in our lives. So different from the rest of the world. So different from our friends and family. So different from our former selves.

I started back at work last week. For the month of August I’m working a shorter schedule–3, than 4 days a week. The first day back was okay. The morning was spent catching up with people I hadn’t seen, giving the “on the surface” answers I spoke of above. The rest of the day I worked on a rush concept, presented that afternoon. At the end of the day my boss said something to the effect of, “you did good, you made it through your first day,” with a big smile on her face. I wanted to cry. I think she thought that because she didn’t see me in tears at my desk that it went well. The truth is, it was extremely difficult–from having to congratulate someone on their pregnancy to gazing at the “baby” folder of my son’s ultrasound images on my computer desktop. I just kept it to myself. I have to give her credit as she tried to make my first day nice–she left a balloon and flower arrangement on my desk and drew a “welcome back” sign on the blackboard. It’s hard because even the nicest gestures are difficult.  The sign was on the very same board that a few months ago listed names of our baby pool–a gamble on which day Rylan was to arrive. I wished my return warranted “baby boy” balloons, exchanges with people about my new mom experiences, and photos of my sweet baby. Instead, I never even spoke his name out loud. The next day I came in I was tasked to work on another rush project to be presented to the client the following day in my absence. By Friday I made changes to the same job again, quickly, for client approval. Despite the stress of rush jobs I managed to leave close to on-time every day and was able to make our counseling session mid-week. Yesterday was my fourth day back. Some additional rush projects, a meeting, a last minute job at the end of the day, needed for a meeting first thing today. I left at 7:15 pm, even though I did not complete the job. I felt bad that I couldn’t finish it but knew that I did more than I could handle. I should’ve left at 5:30 pm as my husband needed me at home. I feel awful about that. I needed him, too. I blasted music and cried the entire way home until I was back with Chris. Something must have been in the air yesterday because it was a tough day for both of us (“tough” being an understatement). I felt obligated to stay. If it was up to me I would of left before the day was half over. Work and it’s expectations are a lot to handle, as I knew they would be. Surviving the environment proves to be a daily challenge for me. I continue to forget my headphones which I think will become my most cherished accessory in the months to come. Without them I’ve been tortured by the conversations between co-workers only a few steps from my desk. On all sides I must listen to people discuss their children… babies on the way and pregnancy woes… how amazing someone looks after the birth of her son a few weeks ago… family vacations… weekend activities… sporting events and first days of school… a daughter’s cute, curly hair… “Picture People” photos of cute little boys… how someone’s kids just won’t sleep through the night… the list goes on and on and on and on. It’s so hard to have to cope with our loss on it’s own–then add all of the family reminders that surround us on a daily basis. Then throw in work. Work is almost unbearable. Because with work you don’t have the luxury of fleeing the scene like you can do in other instances. I mean, if I got up every time I needed a breather or a good, hard cry I’d never be at my desk. I often want to call my husband during the day but worry that it will make me even more homesick. Plus, I don’t feel like a short conversation will be enough to sustain us until we’re back together. I also don’t want to cause him additional sadness or give him any more reasons to worry about me, as I know he already does. It was so difficult to be at work when I knew he needed me this week. And the drive home to get to him made 45 minutes feel like 45 hours. I worry about transitioning to full time (plus overtime) again. I’m afraid that we can’t do it. Part of what got me through yesterday was knowing that we’d be home together today. I also worry about the growing expectations with regard to my role at work. I just don’t feel that I can handle the stress of my job anymore. I tried to explain this to my husband last night–that I start my days with anxiety and sadness that could just about fill a glass to the top–any type of stress added to it may just cause it to spill over. I need my job. I’m just afraid that I can’t do it to the capacity that I use to, or that others will expect me to live up to moving forward. Again, I wish I could run away. From work. From people. From our home sometimes. From adult responsibilities. I just want to protect us from the world, find a place that feels safe, and stay there. Trouble is, I don’t think that place exists.

In the past week we’ve spent a lot of time with our families. Some of the time was really nice, some more difficult. My sister has 2 daughters, Chris’ brother has 3, and his sister has 1. Seeing the girls is nice. It always is. They are all very smart, kind, beautiful girls. Spending time with them, even before Rylan passed away, has always given me that “motherly” feeling. You may know it. It’s that little beacon of light inside you that flickers when they run over and hug you. When they look up at you with that sweet innocence in their eyes and say “I love you” or “I missed you.” When they get restless and hop up on your lap–you can’t escape that kids shampoo scent in their hair as you kiss the top of their head. All of the little things that makes you think to yourself, “I want this with my own child someday.” I’ve always dreamed about my own children but thought that I’d have to change my lifestyle first in order to have them. Working 10-12 hour days with a 45 minute commute can make you think that having kids is out of the question. Then one day I realized–if you take a look at your past you will see that you adjust to whatever life throws at you. If you make 30K per year than that is what will dictate how you live, where you live, and how you make it work. If you miraculously start making 100K a year, you will adjust your lifestyle to fit that. Maybe you drive a faster car. Maybe you buy a home if you’ve always rented. And, as scary as it is, if you later lose that high-paying job you may feel insecure at first, but you will also adjust to that change. So, one day I decided that I wanted children–and although I was unsure how it would work in my current occupation I would just go for it. I’d stop dreaming about what others around me had–I would finally let go of my fears and let life adjust for my family along the way. I did give it a little push, though. I traded in my speedy little Mini Cooper for a Ford Escape with 4-doors and enough room to fit a car seat, stroller, a husband, and 2 crazy dogs. We cleaned out our spare room to make space for our addition. I emptied out the coffee mug cabinet in the kitchen to make room for bottles and formula. I tried to pay off some credit cards to open up my cash flow for diapers and other child necessities. Sometimes I think that my “push” is where I made the mistake. I started to make adjustments before allowing life to naturally take it’s course. I tried to steer it where I wanted it to go. I think that I wanted to be prepared for once, rather than behind the eight ball, scrambling at the last minute to pull things together. Plus, I just wanted things to be perfect for our son. Now, I sit here not behind the eight ball but rather in the corner pocket, under it. Trapped. I feel like planning makes no sense these days. What’s the point of planning what we want when life is just going to follow it’s own plan for us? It’s almost as if planning is just something we’ve made up over time to make us feel like we actually have control. We don’t. At least that’s one thing I’ve taken away from this experience. If I wasn’t so powerless in my life I’d be pushing my son’s stroller down the block rather than words on a computer screen. But life has brought me here nonetheless. I wish it hadn’t every second. I wish I didn’t have to be afraid of so many things these days.

Family gatherings, for one. Like last Friday when I looked over at my husband holding Katie on his lap, gazing at the fireworks in the distance. There I sat, alone and watching them in such a sweet embrace. At first it made me feel warm inside. It only took a moment before I had to hold back the tears. I couldn’t help but wish that he could’ve been holding our son and having that moment as a daddy rather than an uncle. Then I saw his eyes welling up. It crushed me because at that moment I think he felt the very same way I did. When the finale was over, I had to leave the table and asked him to follow me outside. As we sat on a bench in front of the restaurant I cried and held onto Chris for support as strangers passed by. When the tears subsided I felt better. And I felt bad. Better because my husband was able to squeeze the sad feeling away with his love. Bad that I had asked him to comfort me when he wasn’t feeling his best either. I will tell you that it’s not easy to be someones strength when you feel weak yourself.

I hate that I have to walk away from social situations to have a “moment.” I hate that sometimes those “moments” are witnessed by people I don’t know. Sometimes its harder when its people I do know. The hardest part is collecting myself afterwards. Because you have to pull your shit together enough to seamlessly jump back into the social situation you just scooted away from (if you were lucky enough to scoot before the waterworks start in the first place).

Sorry to digress… back to a few things that scare me. I wish I didn’t have to be afraid of seeing a couple that I consider to be our very good friends. The ones that had been following our journey to parenthood, as they anticipated their baby girl. I feel that life pulled us closer just to push us apart. I’m pretty hurt and angry about that. I don’t want to lose my friends but I don’t know how to see them when their precious gift will be a constant reminder of what we’ve lost. Every time their baby celebrates her birthday I will be thinking of my son and how he should also be turning 1… 2… 16… 21… forever. What originally sounded so great–that our lives were following such a parallel course now just feels so cruel. Their baby is an important part of their life–like so many people these days, getting pregnant wasn’t easy for them. I’m so glad that there were no major complications during their pregnancy and that their baby is home with them now, safe and sound. It’s very difficult to be so happy for them and so envious of what they have at the same time. Just 2 weeks before her delivery I remember telling my friend that I was so happy for them. And I remembered how afraid I was to tell my friend the news when I initially found out that I was pregnant. Up until that point I knew that they were still trying (after many years) and I had gotten pregnant without so much as checking the calendar. I was relieved and excited when she revealed that they were also pregnant. But now I look at our situation with such irony. I felt so lucky to have been blessed with a baby easily when I knew they had such a struggle in the beginning. I had no idea that we were in for a struggle ourselves. My friends and their baby girl are a reminder of our pregnancy, our son, his short life, and our giant loss. Their pure joy mirrors our deep devastation. I don’t want to feel that way. Part of me wants to go and visit them. To support their family, to be a good friend. Part of me wants to hold their baby girl. The part that aches to feel like a mom. The part that wants to be a friend. But I know I can’t handle it. I’m afraid that I might close my eyes for just a moment and imagine holding my Rylan. I just don’t think I can bear it. Because I know what will happen when I open my eyes. He will still be gone. And I’ll never know again how it feels to hold him close to my heart. If I saw my friends, even without their baby, I imagine I will just be thinking of Rylan the entire time. I hope that somewhere down the road it will be easier. Mostly because I miss my friends.

I don’t want to be afraid of my emotions. They almost have a life of their own these days. My feelings whether sad, angry, or otherwise can be exaggerated and wash over me like a tsunami. Calm and serene one second, an unexpected, uncontrollable force the next. Sometimes it’s just a feeling of anxiety that sweeps over me. Keeping it down is tough. I know it’s unhealthy to restrain your feelings but most times it’s just not the time or place. And other times you can’t hold them back no matter where you are. I hate that I have to hold them back as much as I hate that there is almost no place I can go that feels “safe” anymore. Safe from heartache. Safe from worries. My husband and I went to dinner with my parents last night. We went to a restaurant located in a fairly large shopping area. To our surprise they had live music in the courtyard situated among the shops. A bunch of people from the community had brought their camping chairs and blankets and were out enjoying the beautiful weather. Sounds like a great event to stumble on, right? I wish I could answer that question with a “yes.” I felt unprepared for such an event and it wasn’t because I didn’t have a spare blanket in the back of my car (I always do). It was because I had not mentally prepared myself for all of the happy families we’d watch as we waited to be buzzed for our table. There were so many families there. So many babies and little kids. Grandmothers dancing hand-in-hand with their grandkids. A son sitting on his dad’s shoulders. Dads and moms pushing strollers and holding their baby girls and boys. An infant boy in torn jeans, laying in the grass looking up at the sky. I couldn’t help but wish that was my family. That my parents could be the grandparents they wanted to be for our child. I could see it in my mom’s eyes–trying to push back her tears so she wouldn’t upset or hurt us. But I hurt anyway. I wished that I was holding our baby boy, rocking him along to the music. Or that Chris was holding him, singing him the lyrics to that horrible Springsteen cover. Again, it just felt so wrong. It took everything I had not to cry right there–in front of a crowd of people. I feel so robbed of what everyone else appears to have. I felt lonely and lost in a sea of families whose babies don’t die. I thought, “I wonder what that feels like.”

That just barely scratches the surface of things I’m afraid of these days. So, I’ll go back to what I started talking about before I veered off track. Life–and how you find ways to adjust. Right now I’m trying to follow the path that my life has taken. I want to resist it, but life just keeps pushing me forward. Making little adjustments every day without me even knowing it. I hope that one day I will wake up and feel like this dark cloud over my heart has lifted, even if just a little. Until then, I will continue to get up every day. I will do my best to pick my head up when I can. I will love my family and live for Rylan. Maybe his life and death were meant to steer us in a new direction. You won’t catch me planning our next move… I’ll just be waiting to see where he takes us.

Service cards were given out at the funeral home on the day of Rylan’s wake. It took me some time to figure out what to have printed on them until I found the below poem. I want to share it with you–if you have experienced the loss of your own son(s) or daughter(s) you may be able to relate. I think it’s a beautiful piece of writing. I hope you like it as much as I do.

It’s 2:00 am. Another night where I’ve kept my husband up with me watching bad TV until almost midnight. I feel even worse about that knowing that he has to work in the morning. For the past two hours I’ve surfed the web for random sources of entertainment, searched new books on my kindle, read two “stillborn stories,” and played a silly game on my phone. Then I turned off the electronic devices and placed them on my nightstand. Our counselor says it’s not good to increase your brain activity with those things before bedtime but I just don’t know what else to do. When I lay down in bed my mind just goes haywire. I slowly feel my anxiety increase as the minutes count down to sunrise. Watching the hours inch toward daylight adds to the pressure in my head that I should be asleep. That just leads to more restlessness. The real kicker is that I need a sleep aid of some kind every night. I hate taking medicine. I don’t want to take something that encourages me to sleep my day away. But I know that I can’t get to sleep without one. That sucks. Most days I try to get to bed before midnight so I can take a Benadryl–which does a pretty good job of helping me get to and stay asleep through the night. I feel it’s better than other meds which can have long term effects on your body over time–like stomach bleeding–and that’s the last thing I need right now. Initially, I tried Tylenol PM. I still take it occasionally–usually a half of a pill just to help me fall asleep. That’s what I did tonight. As you can see, it was a failed attempt.

So, what keeps me up? A lot of things. Work. Money. Vacation. The seasons. Holidays. Then there’s the one that hangs over all of the others–that my precious baby is gone.

Work. I have to go back. It scares the hell out of me. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to handle the stress and pressure of my job anymore. I consider myself a diligent worker. Someone who cares about the quality of work I produce. I want to do a good job for me, my co-workers, and my family. I think that my current state may hold me back from the capacity of work I normally do. I have a very demanding job. I wish I could say that I’m a doctor who saves lives every day, but I don’t. I work in advertising and the hours and deadlines are challenging. I’ve always struggled to find a balance between personal and work life. I drive 45 minutes each way to work and typically end my work day between 6 and 8:00 pm. I spend my evenings trying to jam in as much quality time as possible with my husband, dogs, and family, when our schedules align. I don’t know that I will be able to keep those hours anymore. I’m mentally tired these days. I’m afraid of being far away from Chris–far enough that if I need him, or if he needs me, we won’t be there for each other. My husband works from home on most days and I’m afraid he’ll have too much time to think when it’s not busy. I don’t want him to feel alone and sad as a result. I don’t want us to feel abandoned by each other. If he calls and I’m in a meeting I may not be able to answer and talk when he needs me. That sucks, because in my heart he is my true priority. If I’m busy on a deadline with no time for breaks, how will I take pause when I need to get away and just be sad? I’m afraid that I won’t care about our unappreciative clients and their crazy requests. I’m worried that work “emergencies” will feel so trivial compared to the enormous tragedy that has occurred in my life. How can I keep those feelings a secret? I work in a very open environment. The layout is basically one room lined with short-walled cubicles. It’s hard to escape the noise and chaos on a busy day. I’m worried how I will react when hearing other people’s conversations–about their families, mostly. I just found out that a new girl started in my absence and just had a baby boy. The girl who sits diagonal to me recently announced her pregnancy to the agency and is around 4 months along. It’s easy to be happy for them and want to wish them congratulations, but I know there is a part of me who will be crying inside–and maybe even on the outside. I just want my baby boy. I worry that I will think of my own pregnancy when people ask her how she’s feeling. I’ll have to attend her shower and hold back the tears. How will I escape the feeling that everyone is looking at me as they give her gifts and well wishes? I wouldn’t want to make anyone else feel bad–after all, they should be able to enjoy it the way I did. I’m as afraid of the people who approach me with kind thoughts and sad eyes as I am of the people who act like nothing has happened. It’s easier to care for yourself and avoid tough experiences when you have the freedom to do what you want. I’m afraid of the limitations that being at work will add to an already difficult situation. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to leave work early enough to make our counseling sessions, which is far from my job. I feel those sessions, along with the evening walks my husband and I take, are so important to my healing. I really don’t want to compromise them. I wanted to go back to work gradually. I asked my boss if I could do three days a week through the rest of the year, knowing it was a long shot. She said it’s not possible, that they need the staff and I would, obviously, take a pay cut. Although a 3-day schedule may prove good for my head, I don’t think I’d be able to swing it financially. So, I’ll be thinking of a new plan to throw in front of my boss this week. All I know is that I should be returning in the first week of August. I’m sure that in some ways it will be good for me. I also want to plan something special–a small vacation, perhaps–for our 5th wedding anniversary. I’m not sure how that will go over with work now that I’ve been gone so long.

Vacation and money. Shortly after we lost Rylan I wanted to run. Immediately. Anywhere. Mostly to my favorite place, Maui. I also threw around the idea of going somewhere special for our anniversary which is on September 6th. I’ve looked at everything from Sedona spas and the Grand Canyon to Hawaii and Delaware. I don’t know if I can go in September since I’ll just be getting back to work, but I at least need to ask for a day or two. I don’t know if I’ll have the money to go anywhere right now, anyway. We’ve had a lot to take care of in the financial department in the past few months. I just want to do something to mark our marriage. After all, our love is what’s getting us through every day.

Seasons and holidays. I’m afraid of the seasons changing. I believe that the summer months have helped me through these tough days, even if just a little. To be honest, I’m allergic to winter time. At least, it feels that way. Once the weather is cold and it’s time to trade flip-flops for down jackets a part of my body shuts down. My hair is limp and staticky. My skin is pale and dry. My heart eventually feels like it slumps into some kind of sad state that only blue skies and sun can cure. I feel that way even in a normal year–a year when I’m not dealing with a huge loss. I am terrified that once the leaves blow off of the trees and we’re left with dead branches it will be harder to fight off depression. When we’re cooped up indoors day after day the hurt in my heart will linger more at the surface. It’s nice having sunshine, evening walks, and butterflies. I’m not sure where winter will leave me this time. I don’t want to be stuck inside with my devastation. And, of course we can’t forget the holidays. I pictured this year as being our first Christmas as parents, laying with our son on the couch listening to music and watching the tree lights twinkle as a family. Buying that cheesy “Babies First Christmas” ornament. Dressing Ry up in a sweet holiday outfit and showing off our beautiful son to relatives and friends. Without him, I’m not sure I’ll feel okay to be with family and friends. It will be hard to watch all of the other families with their children and not reflect on our loss. If I sit here with tears in my eyes as I think ahead, how will I be when the real festivities arrive?

My sweet baby boy. Some days I just can’t handle his absence. It breaks my heart. I can only describe it as a type of “separation anxiety.” It’s just so unnatural that he’s not here with Chris and I. I don’t want to go along with the hand we’ve been dealt anymore. I want to swim against the tide that’s pushing us further and further from the life we came so close to having. As painful as it was, I want to go back to the hospital room–the time when I held him in my arms. Even if he wasn’t completely there, he was still there. More importantly, we were there–together. The way it’s suppose to be. Not like this. I just want to go back there and stay for eternity. I don’t spend much time in the nursery these days. What brought me comfort before feels different now. It’s not like I can’t open the door or go in there without shedding tears, because I can. I just don’t want to go in there now. Most of the time it just feels like I’m throwing salt in a wound. For awhile I placed flowers from our garden in a vase on his dresser on a weekly basis. Not so much anymore. As much as I did those things for Ry, a big part of me did those things for me, too. The marker for his grave is now in place. It has a flower and butterfly design on it and includes a vase for flowers. His final resting place is right under a tree and is beside my sisters grave. I hope that she’s watching over him for us. I think about him every day. I hope that he knows that. I hope he can see and hear his dad and I when we tell him we love him. I hope he can feel love when we think of him too.

I hate it when I feel the way I did tonight. And, it always happens in the middle of the night–when I can’t sleep and the rest of the world is in a silent slumber. Here I am. It’s 4:30 am now and I’m still typing away. I was hoping the bright light of the monitor would be enough to make my eyes drowsy. No such luck. I think I’m going to take the other half of that pill now. I thank you for stopping by to hear the string of thoughts balling up in my head. If you’d like to get anything off of your chest, I’d be glad to hear what’s keeping you, too.

It’s been almost two months. Sometimes it feels like we received the news yesterday. Sometimes it feels like more time has passed. No matter which it happens to be on a particular day, all I know is, it hurts. I find it hard to explain how I feel. It’s a hollow sadness deep inside me that even Webster can’t define. I don’t cry all day. I don’t know if it’s because sometimes the “well is dry,” so-to-speak, or because enough time has elapsed that I can be sad without sobbing every hour. It’s not like I feel any better about what has happened. Time just keeps moving ahead whether we’re ready to move with it or not. Shouldn’t the world stop to acknowledge when traumatic things happen to us? I wish it was as easy as pressing the pause button on some oversized remote for life. Maybe all of those technology guru’s can put their brains together for good and create an app for that… yeah, I know, I won’t hold my breath. Some say that life is full of disappointment, but this goes beyond that. I think that losing your baby is the most traumatic thing that can happen to someone in their lifetime. When you find out that you’re having a child you begin making plans and setting expectations for your future, almost immediately–some are small, some large. Nine to ten months is a long time. It’s full of changes, adjustments, and preparation both physically and mentally for both mom- and dad-to-be. And the same goes for the people in your circle. I feel like we we’re all driving down the road together with my husband in the passenger seat and me at the wheel–with everyone following behind us. We saw our future ahead and within reach. All of the sudden, without warning, I lost control. The car did a complete 180 and began to drive on its own. The brakes don’t work and I can’t turn around no matter how much I pull at the wheel. Our expected future fades in the rearview every day. I know it’s a horrible metaphor, that I’m even stretching a bit, but it does sum up how I feel about our loss. I thought we were going to have our baby that night and start our new journey together as a family for years to come. I thought that we were in control to a point–that as long as we had appreciation for what we were given, if we had faith in our future, the family we wanted was attainable.

I tried to be a good wife and mom–to protect our future. I followed the doctor’s rules. I never missed an appointment. I ate the right things to keep him strong, to keep me healthy. I took those crazy, big vitamins. I even choked down yogurt for the first few months (bleh). I tried to be prepared. We made a nice room. I read up on the latest crib, stroller, and car seat safety before tagging items for our registry. I washed his clothes in special detergent in case he might have allergies like his daddy. I made sure that we had two kinds of bottles and formula in our cupboard in case he didn’t take to breastfeeding. Diapers were ready and waiting next to at least three kinds of rash cream. All of the preparation in the world could never have prepared me for where we stand now. How do you go from picking out the perfect crib and bedding one day to choosing your baby’s final resting place the next? How am I suppose to accept my empty belly now that our baby is not here in my arms to hold? How am I suppose to reassure my husband that things are going to be okay when I’m on shaky ground? I want to act out like a child sometimes, kicking and screaming with my fists to the floor, hoping that someone will “give me my way.” That someone will give us back our son. Our future. I wanted so many things for us, to do so many things together. I want to see my baby’s eyes looking up at me while I hold him. I want to hear him cry. To hear him breathe. I want to dress him in that blue surf sweatshirt his daddy picked out for him. I want to rock him to sleep. I want to smell his baby face while I kiss his forehead. To teach him how to swim. To read him books at bedtime. To see him laugh and smile. To watch him clap along to his daddy’s guitar. To play with him as he splashes around at bath time. To introduce him to the feeling of cool sand between his tiny toes at the beach. I want to tell him I love him when I know he’s listening. I want to watch him play in the backyard with Sam and Nacho, and most of all with his dad. I want to draw and color with him. I want to hear his voice one day–for him to call us “mom” and “dad”. I want to watch and help him grow into a good man.

I wish we would have had the chance to save Rylan. I wish we could have changed our fate. I have to live every day knowing that I was the only one who could’ve known that something was wrong and didn’t pick up on it. It kills me to know that my baby could have been hurting or struggling and I never even knew. Even worse, it’s hard to know that my body could be responsible in some way for his death. I often feel like I failed Rylan and my husband. Even our family, sometimes. I have to keep telling myself that thoughts like that are irrational–because I know that I would have done anything to protect Ry and Chris had I known–but it’s not always easy to be rational when you’re sad. All I know is that I would have given my own life to save his–and to save Chris from this experience. I hope that means that I am a good mom and wife in some way.

Most days I feel lazy, or, just plain crazy. I don’t know which way is up and I definitely need someone to mark me with a big “fragile” sticker before shipping me out to my next social event. But, I keep getting up every morning and try to stay busy. Maybe I just try to stay distracted. Mostly I look forward to when my husband isn’t working so we can hang out. Our time together has been my saving grace. I gain such comfort by being in his presence. Part of that is because we have endured a similar experience, that we’ve shared a loss that only one another can understand. But, it’s also because we love each other so much. We have our moments like anyone else, but at the end of the day we truly care about each other. It feels good to be so sure of something in such uncertain times. I’m so glad that I listened years ago when my parents said that I should marry my best friend. I still get that excited feeling inside when we hold hands or he leans in for a kiss. When we get into those giddy moods together he makes me laugh so hard that my cheeks hurt. I’ve cherished those moments over the years. Now, I live for those moments. I guess that’s what makes this situation even more frustrating. In my heart I always knew that we would be good parents. I looked forward to sharing the great love that we have for each other with our child. I hoped that we could be a good example so that someday, hopefully, he could meet some lucky girl and have a relationship as good as ours. I don’t know how much babies retain while in the womb, but I hope that he got to know his mom and dad a little during our time together. I hope that he felt the love we have for each other and for him. I hope that it surrounded him and protected him when he passed away–the way that his daddy’s love surrounded me that night to get me through. The way it continues to light my way.