four years.

Here we are, October 13. Four years ago today Cian left us. Each anniversary my feelings about the anniversary change. The pain and anger certainly have not diminished, but with each year I get a little braver about not letting the actual anniversary consume me. But my God how it stings knowing Cian should be starting kindergarten next year. That perhaps we'd have moved on with our lives like I'd always planned - having our 3 kids then relocating to a more family-oriented community. But that all got put on hold for reasons unbeknownst to me for the rest of my livelong days I suppose. When I question where I am in life and what to do next, all the confusion stems from the events of 2006. I wish I could just put the scarlet letter on my chest and be done with it.

The cliche is true. And believe me, I hate cliches. Losing a child is every parent's worst nightmare. I look back on our days in the comfort room in Children's - all 3 or 4 of them - and think, how did I make it? From a distance I'm now one of the people who read our CarePage and left a note saying how strong we were, asking how we were getting through it. From this distance all I can surmise is that it wasn't me at all. I remember taking a shower the day he died - actually I think it was the day before. Looking back I think, how on earth did I leave his bedside for 15 minutes? Then I recall I hadn't had a shower all week and I just needed 15 minutes to myself to try and feel like a human being again.

Prior to Cian dying, I never had a face-to-face experience with death. I was so scared he would pass in the night but it was physically impossible to stay awake all night. I remember asking John what it would be like when he died - John's father had died about two years earlier and John was with him. It's amazing to me that the palliative care clinicians knew what would happen and when. Towards the end we were almost scared to hold Cian - hard to say why. Maybe it was a crude form of detachment starting. But they urged us to hold him - his dad, his uncle, his grandpa. When he got to me, things started to change. The room slowly filled with people, drugs were being pushed. I just sat rocking him. Someone's cell phone went off. I remember asking, is he gone? Then he'd take another labored breath. Then he really was gone. But if I stared hard and long enough, I'd swear his stomach was moving.

Eventually everyone left the room. He lied on the bed as if he were a doll. We bathed him and put a clean outfit with clouds on him. Then they took him, wrapped in a blanket as if he was a sleeping baby.

Leaving the hospital after your child dies is a surreal experience. First you pack your things - like checking out of a hotel almost. Then you put on a brave face and walk through the halls - there is no emergency exit - and see the other families wishing for a miracle, getting a miracle, getting the shaft or just having an ordinary day. You go to your car and see the empty carseat and wonder if another baby will ever sit in it again. You go home and see all the toys and clothes that are left behind. You cry. You cry a lot. You want to rip out your insides. But you can't. You have to pull it together. There are plans to be made. Phone calls to place. Thoughts to process.

It's true I'll never be the same because of what happened four years ago today. And it's hard to go through life every day faking it. I know what some people think. That Cian was just a baby so we probably didn't get too attached to him. Or how we'd just have more kids because you know he could be replaced. I sit in meetings at work where jokes have been made about hospital morgues or pity is levied for parents of sick kids. People talk to us about our two kids or ask if we are going to have a third. All the while I fake it. What choice is there really.

I'll never understand why we were chosen to give up our first child after only 7 months of life. The trauma of having your parenthood taken away is simply ridiculous. Obviously I'm appreciative of getting it back, but I will always wonder what kind of parent I'd be now if I wasn't carrying that baggage. Better? Worse? Hard to say, probably a little bit of each.

Miss you more than words can relay. Thanks for everything you taught us. The memories you gave us. And I'm eternally sorry for what you endured.