Someone once suggested that maybe my son was an actual angel sent to change my life, to help me out of the deep, dark hole I’d dug for myself, and that’s why he didn’t stay for long. He taught me so much in his ten short months in my arms. He taught me that I don’t need drugs and alcohol to mask my pain, that I can be happy sober. He taught me what love really feels like. Real, pure, unconditional love. He taught me that I can be loved by someone good, and what if feels like to be loved most. And he taught me what real fear and heartbreak are. Fear not the demon hiding in the dark, or that a lover is cheating. Heartbreak is not a boyfriend leaving for someone younger and prettier. I have never experienced the oxygen-vacant fear I felt before the morning I found him in his crib and turned him over. I have never felt heartbreak as I did when I realized I was far, far too late. As I write this, I feel like I’m reliving that morning… The phone call to 911, carrying his body downstairs, the paramedics and the cops, the moment they told me they couldn’t do anything. This is a nightmare I never thought I would have to live through.
But what if he really was an angel sent to help me? I don’t think that’s possible, as angels don’t have souls. That would mean my son has no soul and that can’t be possible. But I think he was sent to change my life. I saw no way out until he was in my belly. Even then, I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to be a good mom. Not because I thought I’d turn back to drugs or anything, but I just didn’t feel capable of taking care of such a tiny, important little person of my very own when I hadn’t even been able to properly take care of myself for so long. But I did it. I wasn’t perfect, but we love each other more than I ever thought possible. I wonder if he remembers me? I wonder if he sees me missing him? I wonder if he misses me? I wonder how long I have to wait to hold him again? It has been 114 days and about 15 hours, 21 minutes since I last held him alive.