happy bittersweet birthday, dear Owen

Not that physically being somewhere other than home really helps you outrun the grief. Yet, here we are, in San Diego. Grief isn't like some velcro patch that you can rip off & replace with some other *happier* patch. It's more like the new skin that grows over a deep wound. It looks okay from the surface, but if you touch it even lightly - boy does it hurt just like the original wound.

Yesterday Hubby, BigBro and I were at Legoland having fun from open until closing time. Today, we were at SeaWorld. Yet, only little fun was to be had. Hubby & I are really trying *so* hard to make the best of it. For BigBro's sake, it just wouldn't be fair for us to wallow. After all, everyone around us has gone on living their lives. Which, I guess, is why we are still here. To figure out how to best live our lives. Whatever that is supposed to mean. BigBro was a whiny grouch almost the entire day. Until we came home, then everything was okay. Really, so many times that I am getting on with life, or more appropriately living after a deep loss -- I feel like I'm pretending. I do a few things that I want to do and (of course) not what I most want to do -- so, I pretend. Even if it's not something you really want to do, you are supposed to do it anyway and plaster a big smile on your face (or laugh and pretend like you're having fun). That's what Dr. Laura says to do. Then (alledgedly, this still hasn't been working out for me), you one day realize that you are living life with fun and happiness again. I'm still waiting for that day. Like when I was pregnant with Owen last year, when we blissfully didn't know that anything was wrong... I remember looking carefully at the edges, outlines and depth of the trees, colors, grasses, leaves and flowers and thinking, "Life just doesn't get any better than this!". Oh, does that seem like a world away.

Oh, Owen. If only you were still here, my sweet babe. I will never forget the joy I felt when I first saw you in the hospital operating room. My heart nearly lept from my chest. I had so longed to see you and touch your soft skin. I had forgotten how impossibly soft a baby's skin can be. Would you look like mommy, daddy or your big brother? Oh, just like BigBro! And, words just don't convey the great joy at seeing you the day of your funeral. Only a few days had passed since your birth and passing -- I thought I had completely memorized your face, fingers, feet, shoulder, etc. and our time was so brief, that the edges of my memories were already starting to get fuzzy. I had that one last time to memorize your perfect little everything, before you were carefully placed in a casket. I miss you so and selfishly wish I had never heard the words Trisomy 18. Or, that you were at least still with me. No sleep, constant crying, round-the-clock feeding/diapering -- if this was the state that I was to live in for the rest of my life, I would gladly live it, with you.