Two years have passed and still you haunt me, my boy.

It’s been two years since Bug turned sheet white and non-responsive. Two years since my husband ran out to start the car on a frosty fall evening in the middle of the night. Two years since I looked Boo square in the eye and told him this was the one time I couldn’t take my child to the hospital. I wasn’t strong enough.

It has been two years since I buckled Bug into his car seat and kissed his forehead, told him mommy loves him, and hold tight. Mommy will make it all better.

Two years since I drove as fast as my car could go, the pedal to the floor. Two years since I hoped I wouldn’t hit any animals in the dark, two years since I prayed for just this once to be stopped by a police car, anything not to be so alone with my fear and worry in the dark.

It’s been two years since I phoned my husband in the middle of the night, while he waited for a baby-sitter to watch Fric and Frac and told him I was more frightened than I have ever been before, so worried I would fail Bug.

It has been two years since I whipped into that parking lot and felt sick to my stomach. I feared when I opened the door to get Bug out, he would be dead.

Two years since I saw my son’s head hang at an unnatural angle, drew a deep breath and yanked him out of his seat and ran into the emergency room, with him hanging limply in my arms. He was warm.

It has been two years since I literally threw him into the arms of a worried nurse and he ran off with my son, calling out a code. Two years since I stood and watched them try and find a pulse, insert a central line, and scream medical terms that I understood all too well.

Two years since my mouth ran dry as cotton and my heart thumped like a rabbit’s.

It’s been two years since I asked to sit in a dark room and wait to hear any news. I couldn’t handle watching his little body lie there lifeless as they tried to perform an act of God and bring him back to me.

Two years since his pediatrician, bedraggled and haggard, with the light from the hall shining behind him, walk into that dark room and just start to weep. Two years before a stream of doctors and nurses entered after him and patted me on the knee and apologised for not being able to save him.

It has been two years since I sat there in disbelief and terror and waited to shed a tear while others around me wept.

It has been two years since my husband ran into that dark room and looked at me with fear and hope in his eyes. It has been two years since I had to muster the strength to tell him he was too late, his son passed away, I couldn’t save him.

Two years since I last saw my baby, kissed his face, sang his song and said good bye.

Two years since I walked out of that hospital, childless, with Bug’s clothing in a plastic white bag, and Boo by my side.

Two years since I drove home in silence, alone, to face my children.

Two years since I woke them up and told them their brother died.

It has been two years and it still hurts as much as it did the day it happened.

Two years and I haven’t stopped missing my Bug.

Two years and I still haven’t stopped loving him.

Two years and I still wish every damn day that fateful night had turned out differently.

It has been two years.

I’m worn out with wishing.