Here we are again, June 17th. This was the date in 2019 that boy3 was scheduled to be born by caesarean section. So even though it’s four and a half months after his actual birthday, today remains an unforgettable date for us.
We’ve just made it through another holiday where we seemed to be surrounded by families with three children. Somehow it was slightly less painful than previous experiences. Maybe because time has dulled the sharp blade of grief. Maybe because boy3 would have been three and I remember him as a very tiny baby, so when I see a family with either a third baby or a toddler, neither really relates to our boy3.
Of course he’s still in my mind every single day. I still couldn’t bring myself to attend or even look at pictures of family camp, where my perfect cousin took her three boys – the youngest of which was born the same time as ours. But he’s alive and well and full of fun, while ours never came home.
However, I must have entered a new phase of mourning, gradually and almost imperceptibly. Our holiday was a joy, not a time where I reflected constantly on what we were missing out on. I’ve moved on, a little at least. I know that’s normal and good and healthy, but at the same time I feel guilty.
Boy3, I wouldn’t forget you, ever. You’ll always be with me, with us.