The words were spoken with a hush, gently and quietly as the dim lights softly flickered in a darkened hospital room as I held my six-and-a-half-month-old child, his last breath taken hours before.
After spending nearly seven months in a pediatric cardiothoracic ICU with my infant son, the hard part should have been behind me. And yet, it wasn’t. I knew it, but I didn’t want to know it.
Life stood still in that moment. I didn’t know how I would pick myself up and keep going. I was young, but my future just looked crumbly. All the perfect pictures I created of how my life would look months and years before.
Mine was supposed to look like two boys, 15 months apart, growing up together, playing cars on the living room floor, me breaking up fights with time outs, them running out to the backyard and getting dirt under their fingernails as they dug for worms. As far as I knew, life would unfold without a hitch. …