Feb. 12 - Two Months Later

Yesterday marked two months since Garrett passed away. For some reason, I can acknowledge that as a simple fact, like noting the roads were icy earlier this week. But when I think that he would have been three months old today ... that hurts.

It's all the would haves that hit me like a blast from a sandstorm. He would have been holding his head up. He would be cooing and smiling. He would be mesmerized by Jonathan, who would surely evoke eruptions of giggles from his little brother.

The night we brought Garrett home from St. Elizabeth's -- before the trip to the ER, before Saint Marys, before the diagnosis and procedures -- was the only night I'd set Garrett in his bassinet and head to bed excited, instead of worried, about what the future would hold. As I closed my eyes that night, I thought about Jonathan sleeping soundly in his crib, Garrett swaddled and content close by, and Chris lying next to me. Maybe it was partially the postpartum hormones, but I was moved by the sense of fullness in the house. Now I had my family. The one I had envisioned since I was 13. The one with kids -- plural. I felt so complete that night. And to think that six hours later we'd be making our first trip to the emergency room and our world would begin to unravel.

He would have been three months old today. Maybe his eyes would have turned a deep brown like mine. He probably would have outgrown his newborn clothes. We'd have had plenty of hours of nighttime nursing for me to study his features and see how much of Chris and myself was emerging. I would be looking forward to warmer weather and getting my boys outside. Our minivan, with ample room for two car seats, would be serving its purpose all the more.

If we didn't live in a fallen world where illness can chip away at a newborn's capabilities and where tragedy can snatch away children unnaturally early, Garrett would be with us, as healthy as any other baby, and we would still be a family.