One

One year ago today, we lost you.

I remember the hospital, the nurses – thieves of slumber throughout the night – checking that bloody beeping blue machine, checking my IV drip, inserting the misoprotol. Waiting for my child to drop and be taken away.

Contractions. Broken water. Panic of a new mom. Birth canal. Pushing. A silent baby.

We held you, our beautiful, perfect Henry. We were afraid to handle you too much. You were so, so broken. Born with limbs jutting the wrong way. So frail. You were gone, but we dared not hurt you more, our precious son. A new mom who left the hospital without her child. A father without his second son.

Now, memories. Memorabilia. A few photos. Your footprints, and the hat they put on your head that still has some of your blood. Ashes in an urn I made you.

You are long gone, but you will never, ever, ever be forgotten. Where are you now?

I love you, Henry. My first love, my first child. And I miss you every day.

Once year equals 365 excruciating days without you. Happy birthday, my sweet Henry.

Photo on 13-05-02 at 3.22 PM

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Almost one year ago

It’s been almost one full year since we had you with us, since we learned you were sick, and since we lost you.

September 19, 2012 was our very first ultrasound. Our very first glimpse of you – our beautiful Henry. It was the day after your grandma’s birthday. Nine days later, you were gone.