Thanks Angie, for a wonderful project.
At 6:05 am on New Year's day in 2010 a very small, very still little boy was brought into the world. His parents loved him and named him Aiden, flame, for the brief little flame that was his life.
Sometimes it feels like my life stopped that day, and my current existence is a weird sort of afterlife where I have to worry about things like dentist appointments and paying the bills. Other times it seems like the period between August 2009 to January 2010 was just a long and terrible dream. Part of me still lives in that ultrasound room, wishing things would end differently, and part of me is here, living my life. It is a weird sort of dichotomy that I have gotten used to. It is my new existence.
I wasn't going to participate in this project because I didn't think I had anything to say. But I was loading pictures onto F.ace.boo.k, the first thing I have done on that site since announcing Aiden's death, when I realized that my life is mostly back to normal. This normal is not what I had pictured, but to outside observers it appears normal.
I thought about posting something about Aiden when another anniversary comes and then wondered if anyone would ask if I was over his death. Of course I am not over it. I've known from the start that there is no "over" with this type of loss, but I do think I am past his death. I no longer dwell constantly on what could have been or where I went wrong. I no longer question my decisions on a daily basis and wish I had known how things would go. I am more accepting of the fact that I had no control and could not have predicted, or changed, anything. This doesn't mean I don't still miss him with a deep, painful longing, or that I'm not still angry over my body's failure, but I am doing okay now.
I think if I had to sum up a feeling for where I am now, it would be to say, I got through his death. I am not "over it" but I did get through it. I survived a hell I had never imagined. I kept going until I didn't have to force myself to go through the motions every minute. I never consciously thought, "I will live until tomorrow," but looking back I can see that is what I was doing. Living another day, and another, until living became easy again. It took a long time. A year and some change doesn't seem that long intellectually, but it felt like decades. Some days were just so hard to get through that they felt like weeks. But now here I am, on the other side, and I can see the sunshine again and plan for the future. And part of me will always be sad that I can do that without my son.
*When I wrote this I had to count the months - which tells me that I am really not dwelling on the loss anymore. I originally posted that it was 4 months and then realized I had counted wrong. I never would have thought that could happen even six months ago.