Monday, March 24, 2008

When a child dies
When I read about or watch stories of parents losing their children, I can only respond by looking at my three healthy babies and holding them tighter.
I remember the sorrow my miscarriage caused, and I was only eight weeks along.
I remember my terror during my pregnancy with Bug, thinking every time I bled, every time I cramped, I would lose him, too. And then that awful emergency c-section, which his heart rate spiking during each contraction, followed by concerns about his oxygen saturation.
I kept thinking, "What if I lose him?"
Although Boo and Punk's pregnancies were much less eventful, I still remember feeling that way.
Handing Boo over to the surgeon this month refreshed those feelings of absolute terror.
I know I'm not strong enough to bury my child. Hell, I barely survived my first trimester loss, and six years later, mourn that child. There's an empty place at the dining room table that could only be filled by that baby.
So when I read about these parents, I am both awestruck by their strength and humbled by them.
One of my favorite blogs , , began as an outlet for the blogger to grieve her son. She's heart wrenching and humorous (and just a tad dirty) and she makes me mourn her beautiful boy with her.
Driving through the cemetery to visit my Daddy's grave, I pass the section filled with children's graves. And I always look, wondering about those parents who've commended their child to God and will never be able to touch, smell, or talk to their baby again.
And I wonder, why not me?
Don't get me wrong. It's not a club I ever want to join. My kids should mourn me, not the other way around.
But why was I blessed (and they are a blessing--most days) with three healthy, whole children?
But then I realize maybe, through the tears and pain, these parents received a much different blessing.
They truly understand how precious life really is.
While the rest of us can only guess.

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