Tomorrow, November 28, is the saddest day of the year for me. It’s the anniversary (seventh, this year) of the death of my son AJ. AJ is short for Andrew Joseph, named for his great-grandfather and my uncle. He was born October 19, 1994 at Portsmouth Naval Hospital in Virginia and died November 28, 1994 at Children’s Hospital of the King’s Daughters, also in Virginia. AJ looked like me, with carrot-top red hair, blue eyes and what would have been a peaches-and-cream complexion.
This year, he would have been seven, and in first or second grade. I like to think he would love sports and nag me until we went to see Harry Potter. He’d be going through his “ewww, girls” stage right now, more interested in bugs and snakes than in the opposite sex. I also like to think he’d be popular, with lots of friends. He’d be doing well at school, too, bringing home report cards with straight A’s. For me, now, these are fantasies of a life that never was.
AJ didn’t have to die. During labor, he contracted group B streptococcus, an easily preventable infection that’s deadly if it isn’t prevented. Two cheap antibiotics would have saved his life. Unfortunately, I was never screened for GBS, and the infection wasn’t caught for quite some time. To make things worse, neither I nor the baby’s father were told what was going on, even though there were clear signs of the disease in his medical records. Had we known, or even known what questions to ask of the doctors and nurses, my son might still be alive. That my son paid the price for my ignorance will stay with me until it’s my turn to go.
With a candle burning for AJ I want you to know how very much I feel your love for this child Robin…
For all things there is a reason…it is such a tragedy not to have him in you life here, today. I’m sure God has a purpose and I believe that you did the Very best you could have to love and protect him with what you knew to do at the time.
God Bless you and hold you in His arms as you move thru yet another day without AJ in your arms.
My daughter drowned in our backyard pool at age 2½. We sold the house later (that being one of the reasons), but each year, at the same hour of the same day of the same month (Dec 12) I stand on a sidestreet, look over the backyards to the pool in the distance, say sorry (again), and think of what might have been.
MsRobyn–I can’t imagine the hurt of being given something so perfect and then losing it. You must be a very strong woman. I hope you reach tomorrow night having remembered more happy moments with your son than sad ones.
BalmainBoy–I almost lost my kid sister to our backyard pool when she was three and I was seven. I can still remember my father giving CPR and how scared I was in those moments. I am so, so sorry that your moment never ended.
I want you both to know that after I read this, I went into my son’s nursery, watched him breathe in his sleep, and wept because he was so beautiful. Your posts reinforced my belief in the importance of appreciating the small things. I am sending you both all my sympathy and hope for better days ahead.
I am so sorry about your son, MsRobyn. I am sitting here fighting back tears and thanking God he has seen fit to let me keep my kids. You are an icon of strength, in my eyes, now. I never knew this horrible tragedy had visited you.
BalmainBoy, my sincerest warm thoughts to you as well. How either of you have managed is beyond me. I am awed by your tenacity, courage and spirit to continue.
Somehow, I don’t think I could. Even though, with four children, I would have to, for the sakes of the other ones.
My thoughts, prayers, and love go to you this evening.
Thanks, y’all, for the warm words. I took today off work so I can make sure I can be around people.
To answer those who asked, my strength comes from the fact that life does go on. I’m not really much good to anyone, including myself, if I can’t accept what happened and move on. Some days are easier than others. At this point, I can usually expect bad days on his birthday and the anniversary of his death. I’m working to lessen the sting of these two days, but it’s slow going.
There is a book I can recommend. It’s called A Broken Heart Still Beats and it’s by two women who have lost children. It’s an annotated anthology of literature about child loss, with commentary by these women. The book is available through Hazelden’s bookstore.