STILL

I wish life wasn't like this.

I wish he was physically here in my arms, but he isn't. I wish I could kiss him once more, but I can't. I wish I could have seen his smile and the color of his eyes, but I didn't. I wish I could have watched him grow, but I couldn't. I wish I could hear him laugh and listen to him breathe, but I won't.

It's been four months, though so short, it was so long, yet so still at the same time. To me, four months ago seems like just yesterday. I feel like I was just being told by the doctor that it is time to start pushing. I feel as though this nightmare may end just around the corner, almost like it never happened. Is that even possible?

Is it possible to have lived for four months but yet look back on them and feel like they never even occurred? Is it possible to have carried my child for 7 months (29 weeks and 1 day to be exact), and feel as though it was all a dream which ended in a nightmare. Is it possible to feel like the nightmare is going to end in just a few days, like I am going to finally wake up and life will be what it was before May 26 (the day we found out everything was wrong)?

No! No, that isn't possible, but in my world that is how I feel. I feel like every day I am living to get to that ultimate goal of finally waking up and crawling out of this dark and horrible nightmare. I feel like I am getting one day closer to the day I will have my son and we will have that "perfect" family. The day that he will be at home with us and we will be raising him and teaching him and watching him grow.

But BAM! Reality strikes, just like lightening, right into the core of me. It takes the warm fuzzy feeling and slams it against the coldest harest rock possible. In return, I feel this bottomless pit in my heart, yes I actually feel it. I get butterflies in my stomach, and I realize that my life really is that horrible nightmare. The one that has the worst ending possible. The one where the baby dies.

The baby. The one that we worked so damn hard to create. The one that we were so patience in waiting for. The child who was loved so much before he even existed. That baby. That is the one that dies. Not the one whose mother doesn't want it, or the one whose mother did drugs during the pregnancy. Not the baby who was unplanned or the one whose parents decide to leave the child in the dumpster. No, not those babies, but our baby has to be the one who dies.

The Center for Disease Control estimates that each year about 975 babies in the United States are born with hypoplastic left heart syndrome (HLHS). In other words, each year about 2 out of every 10,000 babies born will be born with HLHS. Are you serious?! Why couldn't we have won the lottery? The odds are about the same, on the scratch offs at least. Instead, we have to win in the odds of HLHS and be the ones to lose our baby. Are you freakin serious?!

Today marks four months since we became part of the odds. And though the months have gone by so fast, they are still so very slow. And in the same breath, I think, maybe the months are just STILL, not slow nor fast, just STILL. For the definition of still per Webster's Dictionary is "without motion".

In two words, that best describes the past four months of my life!