On Your First Birthday

Louie’s birthday is today.  When I think of our little guy, I sadly cannot reflect on the memories we made.  His presence is mostly known to me by his absence.  But I can see how it still fills my heart and has changed me nonetheless.  The space between our heavenly reunion speaks volumes to me daily.

Over the last year, I’ve been given no choice, but to keep going. My heart broke into a million pieces and regardless if it is ever “put back together”, it still continues to beat.  It continues to love him beyond the grave.  It continues to choose life and hope, when possible. And the heart muscles grow stronger.  And somehow we have survived since our world stopped.

The year has been filled with love and grief, which are pretty much the same thing to me now. It has also been filled with support from our community of family and friends, along with the kindness of strangers (particularly the bereaved parent community).  Many times, while I have not been able to respond to the cards and emails and conversations and texts, I still read each of them often with tears of healing and comfort. They have been the unspoken strength that helped me to live on.

W and I have decided to go off the grid to camp at Big Sur for Louie’s day. I often feel closest to my son near oceans, sunsets, and the horizon.  He’s beyond my grasp and yet I know he is there.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to get through this year.  I hope it goes down in the books as the most difficult year of my life (loss of Louie, W’s mom’s diagnosis of cancer, an early miscarriage, loss of my grandfather, loss of W’s grandfather), but I fear that I’m tempting fate. So rather than assume things will get better, I continue down the path of “no choice” and take life day by day, moment by moment. And there’s a freedom to live that comes with this surrender.

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Happy 1st birthday, little love.  I will continue to allow your presence/absence to shape me as a mother/daughter/wife/friend.  After all, parenthood indeed creates an irreversible change.  I miss you and think of you every day.

To Louie. From Dad.

L,

You would have been a year old today.  There would have been a lot of milestones and markers to celebrate over the past few months.  smiling, pooping, crawling, turning, laughing, feeding.  We would have seen what you liked and disliked.  Which foods, which colors, which uncles/aunties, and all of your weird habits and preferences.  You would, no doubt, have had some strange behaviors.  And your mom would probably be the one to point most of those out.

These days I have begun to think less on what your mom and I missed out on, but on what YOU missed out on.  The chance to tackle challenges and difficulties.  To figure out a puzzle.  To be satisfied with mastery over something.  To watch many sunsets.  Marvel and wonder at things that can’t be explained in the world.  There are so many wonderful things that I wish you had the chance to experience.

I know that I’ll always be a father and parent to you.  But it's all so cruel to be so separated from you.  What do I do with all hopes and dreams I had for you and for me?  

Here’s what I know.  When you came out, just 12 months ago, everything changed.  You came out with your shrunken chest and little limbs.  But also a whole head of hair and surprisingly pink and cute cheeks. I will always be the proud father of the perfect kid.  The few minutes we spent together was probably the most important of my life.  I’ve become a better husband, a better friend, and a more whole human being.  I will always be grateful for that.  

I imagine you up in heaven hanging out with your cousin Laura.  Causing mischievous with your friend Emmett.  Amusing my ye-ye, nai-nai, and wai-puo, wai-gong with your antics.  Tell Uncle Bernie and Uncle Jeff that they need to keep an eye on you until I can get there.  

happy birthday, my little buddy.  I miss you.