In. Out. In. Out. I take a break to ask my husband the question. The same question that I’ve asked him every day for months. Why did he die? I watch his lips move but hear nothing. It doesn’t matter anyways. I believe that whatever he says is the truth. My eyes glaze over and I dream about the way that things were supposed to be.

My heart hurts. My chest is tight. I’ve pulled muscles that I didn’t even know I had. My body does what my brain can’t and brings me back to the present. Sure enough, I’ve stopped breathing again. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last. I go back to what I was doing before.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I make a note to myself to ask my psychologist when breathing became voluntary? Maybe I got things wrong. Maybe somebody lied. I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. Well, that’s not exactly true. I know that…

     The world should have stopped on December 19, 2009.

     I didn’t have to go on; I chose to go on.

    No one knows what it’s like to be me. No one.

    I am mad at my son. Really mad.

    I feel guilty for being mad.

He’s the one that died. He’s the one that suffered. He’s the one that lost his life. What kind of Mother is really mad at her son for dying? I’m not supposed to feel this way. I don’t want to feel this way. But I do.

I read all the books, scour the internet, mention it to my fellow Baby Loss Moms without incriminating myself. No one can relate. All of them are sad, mourning, bartering, whatever all those Seven Stages of Grief are supposed to be.

I was the only person in the entire world that was mad at their child for dying.

The guilt is overwhelming. I try to change how I feel. I stare at the one and only picture I have of him. I’m appreciative that I have one, but sad that it’s grainy and small and taken while he was sick. My mind goes back to the day he died and the madness seeps in. I’m back to where I started.

And then, one day, I realized that my feelings had changed. The cloak of anger had been replaced with sadness and the realization that no matter what I did or said, he’s not coming back. That at the end of the day, I need to think and do what I need to in order to survive. Survive. I don’t use the word loosely.

Over the past five years, I’ve learned that loss doesn’t come with a manual. That while time might not heal the wounds, it definitely changes things. For better or for worse. Whether I want it to or not. Most importantly, I’ve realized that no matter how crazy my thoughts may seem, I am not alone.

Sarah is a SAHM to The Kids also referred to as the “Two Triplets”; Alexander, Maximilian and Artemis born at 30 weeks, 3 days. When not in her garden or sewing, she blogs at Journeys of The Zoo about daily life, the loss of Alexander, their animals, annual travels across Canada and to Mexico, Supporting Canadians and charities – all with a side of humour. Connect with Sarah: Website | Facebook | Twitter