He was my son.
He is my son.
How do you explain the loss of your child to someone? A loss such as this. No childhood illness. No random, tragic car accident. He died before he lived. Before his first smile. Before his first hug. Before his first kiss.
Do you know how many times I am asked on a weekly basis if I have children? I do. Because I counted last week.
The lady who cut my hair. A client at work. The guy who was our closer for our mortgage refinancing. The kid at Target who saw me staring at baby halloween costumes. You get the picture. Well meaning people, who are just trying to make conversation. They don't mean to enter into "this" conversation with me. In fact, looking back, they probably wish I had said no. They probably wish they had never asked.
Because I answer. I answer truthfully.
"That is a hard question for me to answer," I say. "We have a son who passed away".
Maybe he never breathed on his own. Maybe he never opened his eyes. But he lived inside of me for 40 weeks. 40 wonderful weeks. Roughly 280 days. Well, 279. Because he died one day before he was due.
He was born as any baby is born. Hospital rooms, contractions, husband telling me to push, epidurals, nurses, blood, stitches. When he made his entrance? Absolute silence.
So, yes, I tell people about my son. He passed away. He doesn't live with me. He lives in heaven. Whose exsistence, I question. Whose exsistence I try to believe in, because if I don't, I never get to see my son again. He was beautiful.
I smile softly at the memory of his face. He had his dad's nose. Hands down. My lips though. And through pictures, I have discovered he had my piggy toes.
People will always say "Oh, I am sorry". I prefer to leave it at that. Because if they keep talking? Stupid comments. But that is a topic for a different day.
So, I will tell you my friend, I have a son. He passed away. This is the story of his life, our life with and without him, our healing, our laughter, our tears.