It's difficult. I mean, how can I continue to write about him when I have literally rehashed every.single.memory that I have of our life with Luke? I have told you how sweet he was. What a good baby he was. How strong he was. What a gift he was in our lives.
The memories are finite. We can't make any new memories with our Luke. And it's horrible. Really, really horrible. This weekend, we made lots of memories (as mundane as they may have seemed at the time): I watched Emily master a tumbling skill that she has been working on, I watched James play excellent defense during his soccer game, Tommy watched as Matthew's team suffered a tough loss at his baseball tournament. Every little thing we do in life creates a memory. But what if one's life is too short to make infinite memories?
Because of the lack of hundreds of memories, I am finding it very difficult to write for his Angel Day this year. Honestly, I just want tomorrow to be over. We will go to work, take the kids to various practices, and somehow fit dinner in to our plans.
We will stay busy.
Because the moment I sit down, I will look at the clock, and think about where we were at that exact moment eight years ago. Were we at clinic with my dad, telling the cardiologist how sick I believed him to be? Were we on our way home from TCH, still unnerved by the fact that the doctor sent us home without admitting Luke?
Or was it that moment? That moment where the world stood still? 9-1-1. Pulse-ox. Ambulance. CPR. Yelling. All of that. From about 8:00 until about 11:00. The world stood still. But at the same time, the world came crashing down. Our world came crashing down.
Why is this memory the one that is the most difficult to forget? Why is it that I can't recall all of the wonderful things that Luke did throughout his life, but I can remember every. single. moment of that evening? I can remember how I felt as I handed Luke to my mother so that I could put the pulse-ox monitor around his tiny toe {and how I felt as though I failed him as a mother at that very moment} because I knew that she would protect him. I can remember how the paramedic dismissed our concerns. I can remember the ambulance driving without its lights on. I can remember the sound of her voice when Luke's pulse dropped. I can remember pulling into St. Luke's and being sent to the waiting room. I can remember crying as everyone in the waiting room stared. I can remember the phone call that Tommy made to his mom, and what he said to her. I can remember the prayer that we said, telling God that we would be ok if He took Luke. I remember the looks on the faces of all of the professionals as they exited Luke's room. And I remember the way my father wept as he stood over the crib of his (favorite) grandson after he had passed. And I remember how it felt as we left the ER. Without our son.
But I can't remember the sound of his voice. I can't remember his smell. I can't remember what he looked like when he smiled (only twice). The memories are so few.
I just want to remember.
Tomorrow evening, will you please do me a favor? If you have a chance, between 8:00 and 11:00 (CST), can you say a little prayer or think a good thought for our family? That Tommy and I can remember only the happy memories? That his siblings will remember his strength and will always strive to be just as strong?
It's difficult for each of us and none of us are immune to the pain that is life without Luke. But we do hold on to the hope that we will see him again. And that gives us peace.
My dear friend Amy went to visit Luke today. She brought him a rosary since this is the year that Luke would have received his First Holy Communion. He usually sends her rain, but today he sent her ants (the same thing that he sends my sister Katie). Thank you, Amy. From the bottom of my broken heart.
The most beautiful baby I have ever seen:
