Before my son passed away I always said that today, January 4, was the scariest day of my life. Since his death, it’s been bumped to the second scariest day of my life and is tied with the day I decided to trust a hairdresser who went to school with my husband and walked out of the salon with pink, orange and black striped hair. Turned out the hairdresser was madly in love with my husband in high school and took delight in soothing his spurned affections by making me look like a clown on crack. Good times.

Today is Shalebug’s ninth birthday. (Holy shit. That seems old. My baby would be nine.)

His birthday was always a reminder of the horror we lived through. Each time we sang happy birthday it was always tinged with the reminder of that fateful day and how it changed our lives so permanently.

Unlike the two badgers babies that preceded him by clawing themselves angrily out of my lady bits, Bug’s entrance to the world was like a scene from a low budget horror flick. Or a really bad comedy, depending on how one viewed it.

It was scary for a lot of reasons, none of which included the parts where I was eight centimeters dialated and we ran out of gas on the way to the hospital. There I was huffing and puffing and trying to keep his head from popping out between my legs while my husband fumbled with the gas pump at the gas station we just barely managed to coast our van into.

I panted “Just put five dollars in! We don’t have much time!!! Hurry!!!”

My husband however, heard, “Don’t worry dude. Even though we can see the top of your kid’s head, you should totally stop and talk excitedly to the gas station attendant about our future bundle of joy. I’ll just poke his fingers back in so you can examine the joys of child birth with the underpaid gas attendant who got stuck on night shift. Don’t worry about me.”

To this day Boo swears he tried to hurry but there was a problem with the cash register. I maintain he should have just tossed money at the dude and ran back to his labouring wife, but you say po-tay-to, I’ll say po-tah-to.

Still, thanks to some supreme effort on my part, we made it to the hospital in the nick of time. The labour and delivery nurses were amazed that we didn’t end up being one of those people who ended up giving birth in the back seat of our vehicle. My husband was amazed his wife knew that many cuss words and managed to hurl them all at his head in one foul sentence after another.

No, January 4 was scary for other reasons. Reasons not just limited to what seemed like an endless session of me sitting there with my legs splayed open as an invitation for every male medical resident in the hospital to come and peer between and then comment on the party happening in my pooter. It’s not often a baby gets stuck in the birthing canal so when the doctor on duty has to break out the ole rubber mallet to hammer a birthing mother’s pelvis into a a million tiny pieces to free the trapped infant they like to invite the entire hospital staff to come and watch under the guise of “this is a teaching hospital, ma’am.”

Nor was January 4 scary thanks to stitches or hemorrhoids or the fact that even though I had finally popped out a nine pound, one ounce baby and more amniotic fluid than a body should ever see, I still weighed more than my damn husband.

No, January 4 officially became scary the moment Shale was delivered and the room went silent. Immediately upon his entrance a hush fell upon the room. I waited for that first squaling breath, that sweet sound when a child takes it’s first breath and announces to the world it’s arrival and it never came.

Panic over came me and I looked to the nurses, the doctor, my husband,  for some reassurance. Instead I found grim worried looks pasted on each of their faces. The doctor bundled Shale up and instead of holding my baby up for me to see, rushed him to the isolet to help him breathe.

“Why isn’t it crying?” I screeched, not even knowing if it was a boy or a girl or a monkey I just gave birth to. “What’s going on? What’s wrong? I can’t hear any cries!!” I shrieked, my voice rising to near hysteria with each syllable I spoke.

“He’s breathing, honey,” my husband rushed to reassure me, while looking into my eyes and shaking his head so slightly as to warn me to hang on, hold on, something is wrong but don’t freak out just yet.

That’s when I caught the first glimpse of my baby, my boy. His skin was purple and his feet were deformed; pointing in the wrong direction as though they were on backwards.

It was that moment in time, that exact moment life as I knew it stopped. It was that moment, with the sight of those purple twisted and gnarled baby feet, our lives as we knew it ceased to exist and we were thrust into new lives, new unfamiliar roles we were wholly unprepared for.

The moments after that flew by in a blur. They quickly bundled Shale up and whisked him away from me. My husband insisted they allow me to quickly kiss the top of his head as I lay there trapped on the birthing bed but I wasn’t allowed to hold him.

I was all but forgotten as doctors rushed to save my child. Diagnoses were thrown about like darts at board and dire predictions made with every other breath. “He has heart problems.” “He has kidney problems.” “He’s missing a large portion of his brain.” “He has a cleft palate.” “He looks like he has a palsy of some sort.” “He won’t make it.” “He may make it.” “It doesn’t look good.” “He won’t be normal.”

Within 90 minutes of his birth they had Bug stuffed into a transport shuttle and flown to a different hospital as I sat and quietly freaked the fuck out. There wasn’t much I could do what with a broken pelvis and all. I sent Boo to be with our child as I was devastated at the idea of him being across the city away from me.

It was the beginning of a long journey for our family, as we waited for our son to finally be discharged from the hospital and come home for the first time. Months went by and life formed a new normal. One which included dropping a three and four year old off at a sitter’s each day so I could spend the day sitting vigil beside their baby brother as he underwent one procedure to another in his fight to come home.

When he finally made it home, the snow had melted, flowers were blooming and the air was warm. His arrival home was marked with joy and triumph and shades of fear for we now understood how fragile our baby was. But for the first time since he was born my family was complete and sleeping under one roof and I felt whole.

January 4 brought to me a new son and a new life. I knew the moment I saw those little twisted toes life would be different than how I had planned. I didn’t know exactly how it was about to change but I knew a massive shift had just occurred in my reality. I tasted real fear for the first time in my life, looked terror straight in the eyes as I watched my child fight for life.

What I didn’t know that January 4 was the joy that accompanied fear, or how each low would be triumphed with the sweetest highs we would ever feel. January 4 was scary because life demanded I forget everything I thought I knew and start living in the moment. Shale’s existence tested our family’s foundation, our courage and our faith that no matter what went wrong love would make it right.

I didn’t know the depths of love I was capable of. It was scary because I simply didn’t know anything.

I look back now and it doesn’t feel scary anymore. Not much does after helplessly watching your child die to be honest. But I realize now January 4 isn’t just my beautiful boy’s birthday. It’s the day his father and I became the people we are now. January 4 birthed our new and forever identities.

It was the day we became parents to a handicapped child and learned how to love wholly and unconditionally, yes.

But more importantly, it was the day we became the forever parents to the bright blue eyed boy we called Bug.

Nothing scary about that, at all.

Happy Birthday my angel boy. Your momma misses you, with each beat of her heart and every breath she draws.

*My apologies for my absence. I was missing my Bug, quite simply.*

When Shale died I remember sitting in the passenger seat of our vehicle, traveling towards the funeral home to make arrangements to bury our son and marveling at all the cars we passed on the highway.

The people in those vehicles carried on like nothing had happened, like no one had died. Their lives were unaffected by the tragedy my family suddenly found itself mired in, and I couldn’t wrap my head around that.

Surely the world should stop and take notice of my pain, I thought through the onslaught of tears that poured down my face.

My world did take notice, and I’m forever grateful to the community that held me up and kept me strong through my darkness. But the whole world? It just kept marching on, oblivious to one mother’s pain, unaware the vortex of grief and misery created in a whole world of people’s lives by the absence of one little boy.

I’ll never forget that feeling, knowing life carries on whether I liked it or not.

Yesterday, a friend of mine, a young mother of three, suffered a stroke and is currently in the ICU fighting for her life, for her recovery.

I wasn’t going to write about this, because the pain is hard, it brings the scary place back to my door step, a place I struggle to stay away from on the best day.

But then I remembered sitting in a Los Angeles diner, a scuzzy little run down place, having the best brunch I’ve ever eaten, sitting across from my friend and talking about the scary place we’ve each had to face.

I remembered talking with her quietly, earnestly about parenting, husbands, life.

I remembered all the joy I shared with her, from boob grabbing and car crashes to standing next to her as she held me up to face my own dark place once again as we said goodbye to a child we loved.

I remembered sitting in that passenger seat on my way to the funeral home, watching vehicles pass by me filled with people  carrying on with their lives as my life screeched to a sudden stop and wanting, needing, the whole world to stop and stand with me for a moment to recognize the pain I was in.

So I am writing. For you my friend. For your husband, for your kids. For every person who knows and loves you.

My world may carry on while yours is at a standstill, but I promise you, I am here for you, beside you while you navigate your own dark place.

I promise to help shine a light as best I can for you and your family until you are back to health, glowing with your radiant beauty once again.

I love you Anissa.

Please come back to us.

Hope floats Nissa. We’re all here to help you find it.

On this day, October 21, six years ago, a child was born. He was small, no bigger than the palm of a small woman’s hand, weighing slightly more than a few feathers. His entrance to the world was too soon, too abrupt, unexpected.

He fought to live.

On this day, October 21, four years ago, a different child died. He too was small for his almost five years, weighing no more than a few good sized rocks. His departure from this world was too soon, too abrupt, unexpected.

His fight for life was over.

I’ve written and rewritten this post over in my head from the moment I learned Jumby’s birthday fell on Shalebug’s death day early on in the adoption process.

Each time I stop, having run into a wall of emotion that is too tall to climb. So I pushed it out of my head, and out of my reality, telling myself I would deal with this mix of emotions tomorrow.

Tomorrow became today and there is no pushing it out of my mind.

There is a little boy, who for the first time in his life, has a forever family to celebrate his birthday with.

There is a little boy, who will no longer have birthdays to celebrate.

We were prepared for the emotional impact of bringing in a new life to our family. As a family we talked at length to each other, to ourselves what it would mean to love another little boy in the absence of another. We knew there would be nothing that could fill the void Bug’s death created, no amount of love or time could fill the vacuum created with his absence.

Like the world around us, we knew we needed to move on, to continue, to live. We knew instinctively the only way to heal would to be to keep loving. Jumby has been the miracle medicine this family has so direly needed for so long. This is a family that is meant to share, to embrace and we knew that another child, another sibling was out there waiting for us to find and call our own.

The love he freely gives us with each laugh, each hug continues to soothe the raw edges of our wounds of grief.

But today, on the day of Jumby’s birth and Shale’s death, it is a cruel reminder of what we have all lost.

Perhaps it won’t always be this difficult. Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself, holding myself to higher expectations than any mother can possibly maintain. But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to wish one son a happy birthday while not remembering how his brother turned cold and blue in my arms.

It feels like a knife through our love. A betrayal to Shale for trying to find joy on the day he was ripped away from us. A betrayal to Jumby for not being able to wish him a happy birthday without wiping silent tears that streak down our cheeks.

My children are struggling with this. They don’t know how to cope, how to comprehend, how to compartmentalize their pain alongside their love for their new brother. They look at me with wounded eyes and cry softly wondering if Shale will think they are abandoning him for a live sibling. They weep while wondering if they are betraying this new brother for feeling sadness on a day that should be laced with nothing but joy for the birth of their Jumby.

I’m struggling with this. Deep inside me I worry if Shale is aware of this, if he thinks I’ve forgotten him for my new son. I worry Jumby will question every cuddle I give him, wonder if I’m nuzzling the soft underside of his neck while wishing it was a different little boy in my arms.

It’s complicated and absurd and the irony makes me cackle out loud like a crazy lady inside a padded room.

I can’t change the past, I can’t undo death, nor rearrange time to make birthdays unto their own, unmarred by the fog of loss. I can only wrap the love of my little boys around my heart and put one foot in front of the other while hoping desperately that the example I’m setting is not doing more harm than good.

Today, on October 21, I sit here and marvel how six years ago, my child was born and I never even knew it. A boy who should never have had the strength to live a day has somehow managed to live 2190 days and counting. My beautiful son with dimples so deep you can lose yourself in them.

Today, on October 21, six years ago, our family was given the greatest gift we have ever known, even if we didn’t know it then. A fourth son, a brother who can’t stand or speak or see yet somehow has the ability to allow us to soar to heights of love we had all forgot was even possible.

Today, on October 21, I sit here and remember how four years ago, I said goodbye to my boy and sang to him his last lullaby. A boy who lived longer than anyone thought possible but not nearly long enough for those who loved him. My beautiful son with his bright blue eyes and lashes that touched the sky.

Today, on October 21, four years ago, our family endured the greatest loss we have ever known, a pain we never knew existed. A son, a brother who couldn’t talk, or eat or smile yet somehow had the ability to show us the meaning of unconditional love as he gave us enough love to last a life time.

I will light a candle for one son while I help another blow out his own as he makes a wish.

Today I will gather all my children around and hold them dear to my heart and know that no matter what the day is, whether a birthday or an anniversary, it is a day to celebrate the heart. No matter how fractured it is, the pieces will always expand to love another.

I love you both so very much, my beautiful boys.

Happy Birthday Jumby. We love you so very much.

(Identity concealed to appease the governmental gods while the adoption is finalized.)

We remember Bug. Always and forever we love you little man.