my Baby

When I was trying to recover in ICU, they brought me this photo his great-aunt made. I stared & stared & cried & cried because it was all so fucked up. I wanted to be with my baby, desperately, but I also just barely wanted to live. To have died would have been much easier, for me at least, but that would have hurt far, far more people. So with this photo to encourage me, I slowly began to get stronger.

I remember a few weeks later, after I'd gone home, when my sister came up to help me get moved from the in-laws back to my house and we had one of many conversations about *what the hell went wrong* when she made a comment, something like "But just look at him. It was really all worth it, after all, wasn't it." and I said, "No, I can't really say it was."

I knew this was the "wrong" answer, but it was the truth. She's the only person I ever said this to, and she might not even remember it, but I do.

Yes, he was and still is an exceptionally good-looking, smart, charming, and sweet child.

But - and I can't change this - the day he was born the last straggly remnants of my faith disappeared forever.

I wish this were not true.