Maybe you're all wondering how I've been feeling lately. I know I haven't said. I didn't write anything about Isaac's first birthday or describe how CJay and I felt. Truthfully, I didn't want to. Truthfully, I've felt good. The funny thing about writing that (or even saying it) is it makes me feel a little guilty. I'm not sure why someone's death makes you feel as if you shouldn't keep living. Perhaps a wiser person could explain that to me.
I dreaded March 5, but it wasn't March 5 that got me. It was March 4. For months after Isaac died, CJay thought the 4th was his birthday. We had gone to see the specialist on March 4 at 4 p.m. for another ultrasound, and by 6 p.m. we were admitted to the hospital. We didn't sleep that night; Isaac was born at 1:31 a.m., and we waited until almost 8 a.m. to see him in the NICU. All of this to say ... all day on March 4 of this year, I was sad. Reliving the moments leading up to that appointment, to that moment when the doctor told us we had a choice: go home and he won't live or have a c-section soon. That moment started the avalanche.
And so, for CJay and me we watched the clock on March 4. We did play-by-play, remembering so many of the details and the emotions. We sat on the couch that evening picking through those hours leading up to Isaac's birth. We recalled waiting for my mom and feeling sick with worry. We talked about the surgery and hearing Isaac's two little cries. He was surprisingly loud and strong to have been so ill. We watched Isaac's video and looked at the pictures. And we cried.
On March 5, we celebrated. We talked about what Isaac gave us. We listed the ways in which we'd changed. We bought a cake and champagne and we toasted a strong-spirited child who gave every ounce of what he had. And we smiled.