Not that I’m counting

I am making huge efforts to move forward, make progress, continue to live and breathe without my son. But I cannot escape the fact that today is Sunday the 22nd.

He died eight months ago on Sunday the 22nd. Even writing the words, “he died,” is difficult, surreal, impossible.

I’ve been waking up to silence for eight months. But I know in my heart, deep within my soul, that even if my sweet boy had survived, his life would be hard.

His life would be a continued awareness as he grew of how he was different. How he had to visit doctors instead of join the soccer team. How fevers caused a visit to the ER instead of a dose of acetaminophen. And how if either of those life-saving organs failed, we’d be in the same place we are today.

So today, rather than wallow in the sadness and emptiness I feel of having been lost without him for eight months, I am going to celebrate the three years I had with him.

I am going to spend time with my best friends and their children, who I love as if they are my own. Because they are still here, and they are amazing. And those children’s innocence and honesty is the purest light on this Earth. And I want to surround myself with that light as often as possible.

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