New Years. Every December 31st after all the excess of the holidays starts drawing to a close we naturally begin to reflect on the year that has passed and what lies ahead. Resolutions are made and there is an air of hope as new beginnings feel within our grasp. A clean slate, a new you life is reset. A focus on health a burst of motivation “I’ll do better this time! This year’s my year!” New declarations of love with promises of forever. Vows to escape what no longer serves and be the best self you can. Funny how one day feels so important yet really it’s no different than any other day.

I sit, silently observing, as you hug your daughter. She just came home from school, cheeks flushed from the cold and eyes bright with excitement. The hug was so casual, lacking of any kind of urgency. The kind of hug that you give when you know there will be a million more to come. One at bedtime later, perhaps another in the morning. My hands cup my wine glass as I suddenly feel like an outsider, awkwardly intruding on an intimate family moment. The familiar knot in my stomach returns, a sense of longing pulling out from me and reaching out for something - someone - that I cannot grasp. Tears burn in my eyes and I quickly blink them away as I force a small smile. I feel the intrusive thoughts yet again trying to break their way into the forefront of my mind, “Why my son?”. Feelings of intense guilt immediately flood me, yet that nagging voice still insists, “WHY MY SON?!!!” My son, whom I can no longer wrap my arms around. My beautiful child, whom I had to watch lowered into the ground. Whose touch becomes harder and harder the envision as the days turn to weeks, months, and then years. A hot raging wave of hateful jealously overwhelms me and I grab onto my chair to steady myself, the sensation so strong it feels like it will knock me off my seat. Never again will I feel his small arms squeeze around my neck. I will never get to lean my head against the top of his head, inhaling his scent. Never hear him say, “I love you, mama”. Never see him go to middle school, his graduation, or fall in love for the first time. The thoughts and the agony thrash around in my body like a tornado, yet I sit perfectly still. I look at my friend and her daughter, my sons friend, and manage to steady my voice just enough to force out….“So how was your day?”

“When will we get pregnant?” Waiting, testing, negative again. Friends announcing, happy tears My despair grows until Finally, one day Two lines appear. “When will the baby arrive?” Morning sickness, more like all day sickness. Aches, heartburn, and stretch marks Preparing, nesting until Finally, one day My water breaks. “When will she sleep at night?” Midnight feedings, sleepless nights Bone weary fatigue Barely functioning until Finally, one day A glorious six hour stretch. “When will she talk?” Can’t wait to converse With this tiny human we’ve made. Say ‘mama’, say ‘dada’ We repeat over and over until Finally, one day She speaks. “When will she walk?” Sitting up, crawling and standing Clapping with our arms outstretched Encouraging her until Finally, one day One, two, three steps. “When will she potty train?” Big girl undies, Princess potty seat Accidents and reward charts until Finally, one day No more diapers. “When will she learn to read?” Wake up and get dressed Picture taken before heading out Waiting for the bus until Finally, one day She heads off to her first day of school. In a blink, she’s turned five. Another blink, she’s fifteen. The years fly by until Finally, one day She’s grown and leaves home. And I wish I had never Impatiently wished For time to rush by.

My life is marked by a before, and an after. The Before was a wonderful life, filled with promise. I was carefree and oh so beautifully innocent, the future a vast ocean of opportunity and hope. You were in it, and we were happy. I never took a moment with you for granted, I was so happy and incredibly proud to be your mother. Then, one day you woke up with a headache. We didn’t think much of it, you stayed home from preschool and rested. I sat on the couch with you as you slept and stroked your soft hair, your head on my lap. But the headaches didn’t stop, and the trips to doctors began. First with the pediatrician, then to a specialist, then to the emergency room as they worsened. The fear that started off as a small pit in my stomach grew until it had its vice like grip on my soul as you got sicker, and the doctors kept hitting dead ends. Nothing helped, no explanation could be given. This mystery illness was stealing you away, slowly, painfully. You were so brave. Then you were gone. You were only four. Now I live in the After. I am a shell of who I was, I am no longer me. I am the keeper of unrealized dreams. It is as if my skin has been removed, and the raw pain is all encompassing. I am unable to comprehend that you no longer exist in this world. I no longer exist in it either, instead I float through it like a ghost. Gravity feels so heavy, the sun is not quite as bright. I see people living their lives and going about their days and want to scream, “How can you be so normal? How can you continue on when such a beautiful light has been extinguished from this world?” I wonder if I will ever be able to laugh with all my being again, will I ever be able to feel true happiness without the sadness roiling right underneath the surface? I miss Before. I miss you, and I miss the Me that I was with you. She died with you that cold December day.