Sorry for your loss

'Sorry for your loss'. I hear this a lot, and I've even said it a few times. Sorry for your loss. Silly, really. I mean I didn't lose Caius like someone loses their keys. I didn't misplace him. I can't go to some sort of lost and found to seek him out. He's just gone. Sorry for your gone fits better. Sorry for the permanent hole in your heart. Sorry for the pain.

The thing about losing something is that a) there is a chance that it may be found or returned to you or b) you might be able to replace it. I have to admit that I dream about option 'a' more often than I probably should. I imagine that I am at home, alone, thinking about Caius and making dinner. Clint comes home and I hear him say, 'oh, you found him!' and when I turn, I see Caius smiling and sitting in his office. 'Where were you?', we ask him, hugging him hard and covering him with kisses. 'We missed you so much', we say. And then we eat dinner and carry on living, maybe sharing the story years later at his wedding as we shake our heads and laugh. 'He was right there the whole time', I would share, 'I thought I looked everywhere!'.

Sometimes when we are watching TV on the couch I trick myself into thinking that he is sleeping in the other room. I should make a bottle for when he wakes, I tell myself, almost as though taking part in this imaginary scenario will make it real. I can't wait for his cry, knowing I will get a sleepy snuggle while he eats. The last time I got to hold him, I made sure to remember just how he felt. I recall the spot on my thigh where his legs would touch, how soft his plump little hands were, the feel of his weight in my arms. I draw on these memories as the scene unfolds in my mind. Don't forget to kiss his head, I remind myself, don't forget to tell him you love him. But of course the cries never come.

The hardest part of losing a child is not only the trauma of the loss, but reliving this moment and realizing your child gone every single morning when you wake up. Since Caius has passed away, I have awoken to the thought of him every day. Sometimes it is the vivid sound of him laughing, sometimes it is a memory, sometimes it is a thought about what he would have been like. One month has passed, and the thoughts of what he might be like as an eight month old are too painful to keep in my head. I didn't lose Caius, he is gone. I have to live with this reality every day.

'Sorry for your loss'. So many good intentions, so many meanings behind it. It's what we say in place of all the things we don't know how to say. The truth is I don't want him to be lost any more than I want him to be gone. I just want him to be here, with his mom and dad where he should be. The only thing we can't find is the reason for why he isn't. We don't get the luxury of having options 'a' or 'b'; there is no lost and found bin to go rooting through nor is there a way to replace someone as special as Caius. Sorry for your pain, sorry for your broken heart. Sorry that your sweet baby boy was born with a heart that would only beat for seven months and eight days. These are the truths around the matter. But they are hard to say, hard to get out. I see it in your eyes, feel it in your hug. An uncertainty of what to say, how to express all these things in the 'proper way'. Sorry for your loss. Please know that I understand. I'm sorry too.

Chantal