the worst thing that ever happened to me

I was kidnapped when I was four years old. I was taking out of my home on a summer afternoon by a strange woman. She wore a blue and black polka dot shirt and drove a brown station wagon. In her car with  a man and two unfamiliar children, we rode... We rode through Florida, the only home I'd ever known. Then we kept going crossing more state lines until we ended our journey in Indiana. I remember every detail about her house, the smells, the sounds... If I close my eyes, I'm back there. Sometimes for just a short minute. Other times, I'm lost in those thoughts for hours. Memories of gun shots and my brother's body falling down the stairs, police officers, lawyers, social workers, foster parents... Nights without my mommy. It's all there when I close my eyes. 

I thought that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. 

At eleven years old, I walked into my dining room where my mom, aunt, and a family friend sat. I already knew what had happened. My brother woke me from my sleep after the ambulance had taking my daddy away. He drove me to a friend's house, so he could meet my mom at the hospital. I spent the early am hours of the night, listening to Bryan Adams on repeat, laying on their living room couch... waiting... praying I'd get the chance to apologize to my dad. The last words I spoke to him were hateful. I laid awake looking at their ceiling hoping those weren't the last words I'd get to speak to him. but when I stepped into that room on that May morning, I knew I'd have to carry that regret forever. I'd never get to tell my daddy how much I loved him. I'd never get to walk with him again or hold his hand or thank him for being the greatest daddy ever... even though he didn't have to be. 

I thought that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. 

It was 9am, almost two weeks since I gave birth to my fourth child and the NICU doctors were waiting to talk to us. We made our way to our newborn baby boy's bed side, where he lay hooked to scary machines with a tube down his nose for feeds. As we visited with our precious son, the doctors told us they wanted to send him to another hospital. A hospital where he would get better care. A hospital that could run tests on him to try to pin point what was wrong. A hospital that was an hour away. We signed forms and helped pack his stuff and promised we'd meet them there soon. Then we went home and packed more bags, said more goodbyes and left. We made it to the hospital with enough time to meet our baby's care team, hold him, and get a run down on what was in store for us, all the while keeping an eye on the clock. We watched the minutes tick by knowing it would be the last moments we would all three be together for a while. Once it was time, we got back in our truck and drove to the airport where my husband boarded a plane, heading back to Afghanistan to finish his tour in Afghanistan. I went back to my son's hospital room and cried for my husband, cried for my baby, and cried for my other kids I was missing at home. 

I thought that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. 

On November 11th, my baby passed away. After a twenty one month battle with a neurodegenerative disease of unknown etiology, his heart just stopped. As I kissed his cold forehead goodbye, I thought to myself, this... this is the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I knew I'd never recover from this. I knew I'd never know happiness again. I knew my children's lives were changed forever and I couldn't protect them from the pain. I knew my husband would carry a burden for not being there more, because he was a "soldier" and duty had to come first. I knew that my arms would always feel empty and my heart heavy. I knew his name would never sound the same and keeping faith would be hard. I knew that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I knew I'd never recover. 

.....

He's twelve months old and he's the happiest little fella I've ever known. When I thought I'd never know happiness again, I found it in his smile. When I thought the chill of Handsome's death would haunt me forever, he brought me warmth. I was blessed with a fifth child. A child bright eyed and happy. I'd survived the storm and this was my sunshine. 

Someone forgot to tell me, though, that after every sunshine, there is darkness...

I recently started noticing similarities between Handsome and Doc. Little things everyone kept telling me to ignore. He's healthy. He's perfect. You are over worrying yourself. I heard it daily. But I needed to hear it from someone else. From Handsome's doctor. 

Last month, Doc had an MRI. We were all hopeful the test would rule out a genetic disease. We never had reason to believe Handsome's disease was genetic. We had three other healthy children. No one in either family had a history of anything similar to Handsome. We even tested him for genetic disorders and it all came back fine. The test was just suppose to be to rule it out, to put my mind at ease.

But the day before his first birthday, I was standing in the toy aisle at Walmart, looking for a last minute gift when the cell phone in my purse rang. I answered it not recognizing the caller id. The voice on the other line was all too familiar. It was the voice that brought me bad news just ten months earlier. I fell to my knees in tears as the voice on the other line confirmed my deepest fears. The MRI was abnormal. They believe he has the same thing Handsome had. 

I've spent the last month trying to work this all out in my head. Trying to be okay. Trying to make sense of any of it, but I can't. I'm angry. I'm not sad. I'm not looking for pity. I'm just angry. I'm pissed! Losing my son was the worst pain imaginable and I'm not ready... I'm not WILLING to do it again. I'm not asking for a miracle, anymore. I NEED a miracle. My heart can't take anymore heartbreak. My family can't go through this again and most importantly, my baby deserves to live. I can accept that I had to lose one, but two? I can't lose them both. He deserves to live.