Two years ago on September 28 (two days from the date of this post), life was a never-ending swath of grey. Inundated with tears. Enveloped in a cocoon. Burnt to a crisp. No one allowed in, no way of going out. I lost my first child. My beautiful Henry.
If I take a look and open that door, the hurt is still a vibrant shade of angry-orange. I think about Henry every day. I will never heal. Forget what they say about time as the great healer. You just get used to a hurt this big. It muscles its way in to your life and you just live with it. You don’t get over it. It’s always there.
I look at Corin, my almost 11-month old son – my second child – and am taken away with how healthy he is, and I can’t get over how lucky I am. Every day is a gift. And I always wonder if Henry would have looked like him.