The Reasons Why

      I woke up a few weeks ago with the desire to write out what my life has become since one of the most pivotal moments in my life occurred. After thinking on it and praying on it, I realized that this avenue may be the best way to start. 
      5 months and 5 days ago, my husband and I walked into the hospital expecting to bring home our second child. Expecting is the key here. Much to our dismay and not due to any lack of effort on the nurses’ part, little Wyatt’s heartbeat could not be found. I’m pretty sure that my heart stopped the moment the doctor said that he was gone. How could this be? Just six days earlier, I heard his heart’s lub dub, and I could have sworn I felt him moving all weekend. There was nothing anyone could tell us about how it happened, aside from that it had happened. He was delivered at 12:29 pm that day via c-section. We were able to hold him and love on him. I remember the entire time while holding him thinking, “he’s going to wake up; he’s going to cry any moment.” Denial, shock, wishful thinking, whatever it was; that my thought process. 
     We buried him three days later. My husband made all of the arrangements, my dad got the musicians for the mass, and our priest prepared the rest. I honestly don’t remember a single thing said at his mass, but I remember the faces. I’ll never forget the look on the face of our priest as he said a homily about my sweet little boy, that he didn’t know. I’ll never forget the look on the face of my oldest son’s Godfather as he read the readings for the mass. I’ll never forget the glimpse of the faces I saw in the crowd when I had the strength and courage to lift my head. What lingers in my mind the most is Wyatt, though. The reason why church is so hard isn’t because I don’t believe anymore. The reason why is because every time I look at the place where 10 years ago, this April, my husband and I stood to take our vows is now the place where my son’s casket stood. I don’t really remember the mass, but I vividly remember the grave site service. As we drove up to Babyland, I thought, “if I get out of this car, it is real.” Silly to think that, I know, but it is amazing what your mind does while in grief. The reason why I remember it so vividly is because it was as if no one was there but my husband, my child, and me. I go visit his grave almost every week. It isn’t where I feel him most; it just gives me a tangible piece of piece of him to look after. 
     Life has marched on as life does, and we’re all left that hovering question that engulfs me at times; why? I have pictures of my angel and other pieces that remind me of him. I have two shelves in my living room dedicated to him. It has the cross that was on his casket piece, a small arrangement in a baby food jar of the flowers on his burial pieces, the plaster castings of his hands and feet, a Willow Tree statue of a mother, a small child, and a baby, the tree dedication a dear friend bought in honor of him, and lastly, a picture of me kissing him on that day when I said hello and goodbye to my child. Why? Why keep such pieces that on any given day could tear me apart? The reason why is because he is our son, my baby, and just as I adore his older brother and fill the house with elements of him, I do so with Wyatt. That’s why. 

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