It's been one month since you were born, Caleb.
It's been one month since you died, Caleb.
I miss having you safe inside me. I miss thinking about what the future would hold for you. I miss imagining what your nursery would look like - I had everything all picked out. I miss anticipating this Christmas - our first Christmas together as a family. I miss wondering what you would have looked like. Would my brown eyes and brown hair beat out your dad's light hair and beautiful blue eyes? Would you be tall, like me? Fair-skinned like your dad?
Most of all, though, I miss you.
There were a lot of big events that came together this week in the perfect storm of making me lose it. Sunday, Mother's Day. Today, one month anniversary. Friday, I would have been 24 weeks, the time when chances were good you'd be able to live outside me. Yesterday that all came together and I almost had a panic attack. My chest got tight and I couldn't breathe, I felt lightheaded, like I might throw up. I had to call one of my best friends to talk me down.
I want you back, baby boy. I want you to be a physical presence in my life every day, not just a memory.
How do I reconcile what was the worst time of my life - your death - with what was the best time of my life - getting to meet you?
I'm reading a book that describes losing someone like this:
"When someone dies, it feels like the hole in your gum when a tooth falls out. You can chew, you can eat, you have plenty of other teeth, but your tongue keeps going back to that empty place, where all the nerves are still a little raw."
Caleb, I miss you every day. I will always miss you. Even ten years from now, when I'm playing with your little brothers and sisters and I'm not grieving every moment, I'll miss you.
Love you so much, little guy.