I've recently started doing a dangerous thing.
I can't sleep at night, so I stay up, bargaining with God. Maybe he'll give me my baby back if I rewind my life and do things differently. Please God, I'll die. Take me instead, not my own child.
Then the crying starts. Followed by the sobbing. Finally, I'm so drained that my body has no choice but to sleep.
I don't know why my mind and heart play these games. I know Sawyer is never coming home. He'll never lay in his cherry wood crib. I'll never hold him in my arms.
Visiting the hospital and talking to his neonatologist made it all so real. And final.
As hard as it is to accept what happened, I can't help but search my soul for him and for answers.
Babies aren't supposed to die. I don't even know what the hell a "normal" birth is anymore. All I know is pain, suffering, heartache, grief. My babies rushed away, tubes shoved down their throats, tiny bruised hands. Sadness painted on their tiny faces. Where is our joy?