I saw this Facebook status update today.  "This week we remember all babies born sleeping ,or those we have held but could not take home or the ones that came home but didn't stay. Make this your profile status if you or someone you know has suffered the loss of a baby."  I couldn't bear to make it my own status update because it hit a little too close to home, this week especially.  This is the week, nine years ago, I lost our first son, Wilder.  And every year, starting September 25th, I get depressed.  Just sitting here, typing this (in the library of all places) I am sweating in an effort to not cry.  My throat hurts and I want to lie down.

When I tell people the story of our loss, I tend to gloss over a lot.  I just give the facts.  We found out about a month before he died, that he had Trisomy 13 and probably would not survive to term.  I didn't feel him kick on the evening of September 25th so we went to the doctor the next day.  He was stillborn the day after that, the 27th.  What I don't tell people is that I had believed so genuinely that God would never let me suffer through something so awful that when it actually did happen, I was lost.  Completely and totally convinced that God was punishing me for getting pregnant before I had actually gotten married.  That I was not worthy of being anyone's mother and God was showing me in the most awful way possible.

The week of pure hell did not end until we buried Wilder on October 1st, 2001.  So you see, I am still in the throes of my week of feeling melancholy and sad.  I will say this though.  I have gotten over my feelings of being punished by God.  We live in a broken world and it is filled with sorrow.  Filled to the brim.  It took me a long time to come to a place of acceptance and I am glad I have finally gotten to it but I still miss him.  There are some people I know that wonder why I still grieve the death of my child after all these years.  But they never knew him up close like I did.  He did live in me for 7 months after all. 

I know now that God is good and loving and just.  Exactly like we were taught in Sunday school.  He knows the grief of losing a child, to the cross, to the sin of the world.  And though I'm sure that some could argue that God could have stopped it, healed Wilder down to his DNA, I think that it doesn't matter anymore.  He's gone from me now and I have let go of what might have been.  "If" is such a terrible word. 

This year was the first year we, as a family, celebrated Wilder's birthday.  The kids understand that he is in heaven, waiting for us to join him.  When I mentioned that it was his birthday on Monday, Avery said, so excited, "Let's celebrate it!".  How could I refuse?  So we got cupcakes and a "9" candle and sang for all we were worth.  Alden asked me what age we got be in heaven.  That child loves to ask the stumper questions.  I didn't have an answer except to guess that maybe we can pick what age we love best. 

I personally think it doesn't matter what age I get to be as long as I finally have all my children with me, at last.