As I sit here in the middle of the night, as a lot of new mommies do, I reminisce back to the last time I did midnight mommy duties. No matter how how I try, I can’t help but to think of how life would be different with a third child and how most of each day is consumed by making sure she’s ok.
Whether you believe in date, destiny, God, ‘things happen for a reason’, I can’t shake the truth that I
could’ve, should’ve, lost a son who would be four. Another set of feet running through the house, more teaching and learning, more frustration, but most of all, more hugs and kisses. There are days when I’m paralyzed with fear that I’ll do something and she’ll go away. There’s no particular thing because I didn’t do anything the last time.
I’ve started to realize the frustration I’ve had with other parents who solicit help and prayers from virtual strangers and virtual friends online while they are struggling. I’m angry. I’m angry that they have the opportunity to get the love and support from others where I won’t be able to. Not that people don’t care, but now it becomes more of an apologetic conversation. It’s too late to ask for sympathy, it’s too late to ask for prayers, it’s too late to do anything for Alexander because he’s gone. Nothing can bring him back. Nothing can save him and nothing can save me from the pain.
I can’t go back now. And these parents did something I didn’t do and wasn’t. They were brave enough to share their story, to let others know they weren’t alone, to seek help and guidance, to seek a community of support of people who understood and people who didn’t. Four years later, where do I go? I wasn’t ready then, not sure I’m ready now, but it just seems too late.
Now looking at this small little girl, I can’t help but to be reminded how precious and fleeting life can be.