21 weeks

God help me, sometimes it just hits me how much I lost when I lost you, baby boy.

I got to listen to a parent talk about her miracle child, the boy who is in my class, last week. He was born when you were. 21 weeks gestation. They did surgery on him, matured his organs. Oh my son. He made it. He's beautiful, he's so beautiful. And gosh darn it if I didn't get angry inside when I looked at him. Why couldn't it have been you? Why didn't you live? I KNOW that they couldn't fix what wasn't there. I know that fetal kidney transplants are beyond the current capabilities. I intellectually know all of this. But emotionally, oh baby boy, emotionally, I just wanted you to be alive.

And Saturday, your aunt Jenni called me. Her little sister (the one who we used to torment as kids) just lost a baby who was around your age. Oh Henry, my heart broke for Elizabeth. I know what it is to lose your son. I know what it is to hold the lifeless body of your child in your hands, to know that this precious life will never be fulfilled. I know what it is to hold in the rage and grief because no one can understand the pain that comes from losing one so small. I know what it is to feel as though your heart will never heal, to feel as though you'll never understand anything ever again.

Baby boy, today I got to see my student's scrapbook. His hand and foot prints from when he was born. And I thought of you. All day. All day long. Oh my baby boy. I long to hold you, to kiss you, to smell you, to stroke your hair, to feel your smooth skin under my finger tips. Please understand when I cuddle this student a little bit and pretend that he's you for a minute. I love you so dearly.

Kiss Grandpa Duck for me. Your great great grandma is with you now. Cuddle her a little bit for me.