"Would have been..."

When people out and about ask me about how many kids I have, I always say two. I desperately plead in my mind that my answer is sufficient. (It rarely is.) I tell them that I have a (now) eleven month old and a son that (now) would have almost been two years old, but is no longer with us. When they give the look of horror mixed with confusion, I try to put them (and myself) out of misery and just spit it out: "We lost our eldest son at three months old to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome in October of 2016." Clear, concise, to the point. But most of all... true. What else is there to say?  It's become my stock answer. And to be honest, it doesn't make me as sad or as uncomfortable as you might think. For the reciever, I'm sure it's far different. I hush away their "I'm so sorry's" and give them a brave face, a smile, and a "thank you" and scurry on my way. 

Whoops, I lied. There was one time when I was pregnant with Flynn and already having a hard "Trey Day" and someone innocuously and cheerfully asked, "Is this your first?" I smiled, said yes and walked on. I felt so terrible. I felt like a fraudulent, horrible mother. I spoke to Trey later that night with an earnest apology and tears in my eyes begging him to forgive me and that I would never, ever (EVER) take the "easy way out" again and dishonor who he is, who we are, and what we have. (Turns out, this was the farthest thing from the "easy" way out I had haphazardly hoped it would be). It felt like betrayal... to us both.  

Why do I include SIDS? The answer is easy: SIDS Awareness. I'm not talking about the kind of awareness we think of traditionally with fundraisers and races. While both of these things are phenomenal and certainly on my "To Do" list,  it's a little broader. What if that person I told has a neighbor who loses a child to SIDS (God forbid) in the next few years? They'll have heard that it's real, that it happens, and most importantly... that those they know who have or will go through something similar are not alone. 

I wish I could dismantle the illusion that it's rare or preventable. I wish I could eliminate the needles shame. I wish I could normalize the reality that so many of us (more than you'd think...) live daily instead of it being the mysterious "old wives tale" shrouded in confusion and hushed worry that this monster won't strike their homes, their neighborhoods,  their communities. Because unfortunately, it does, it has, and it will until science catches up to this heartwrenching mystery. I wish more people had been open with me about their experiences with SIDS before Trey passed. I wouldn't have felt so confused and alone. I found out later that thankfully (and heartbreakingly)...I was not. 

But back to "would have been". I hate that phrase but until I can find something more accurate, it's all I've got.  In my very early grief days, I was already fast forwarding in my mind to all the birthdays and anniversaries that lay ahead. I realized that it would feel wrong to say, "Trey would have been one years old today." It's hard to articulate, but that phrase alone seemed to only add insult to injury. One: my son isn't here. Two: here's what my alternate reality "would have been". I always thought that was a sad perspective and way to live, nonetheless here I am, saying it. 

I think the "would haves" are the knife in the heart of the wound of a "loss parent". Isn't it bad enough that my son isn't here without saying all the things I'll never know and the things that he will never see to come and pass? It guts me.  

I'd like to think that Trey was not "supposed to be" two years old this coming Friday. 

I'd like to think that while it takes some people an average of eighty- something years to fulfill their life mission (which is my personal ideology as to why we're all here in this incredibly challenging classroom called "Earth"). 

 I'd like to think that my sweet, perfect, wise- beyond-his-age child fulfilled his mission in just three short months. That thought makes me happy. That thought makes me beam with pride. Mostly, because when I check deep within my bones and gut... it feels more accurate. It rings true. My baby's physical body lived for three months but his soul is free. He is boundless. He is love. 

When he left his body, he left the numbers game. He is now infinity, eternity. He is forever.  

Trey, you would have been two years old this Friday. But baby... you are so much more than that. I do everything I do for and because of you. I will continue to live fully for the two of us. You're right here with me. In every word I write. In every person I serve,  however grand or small.  In every expression of my being that is of love... is for and of you. With every beat of my heart and every breath I speak, you can be found. I love you fiercely, my buddha babe.  But you already knew that, didn't you...