One Year Gone

It has been a year since Artemis was taken from us. One terrible, empty year. Each day creeps by without too much notice, but then you realize how long it has truly been as that impossible date looms just around the corner.

The last few weeks, we have been reliving certain aspects of the nightmare we all went through one year ago. The moments of fear, anxiety, regret, dread, and grief are hitting again, though not with the same force they did in the hospital. One emotion I realize we are missing is hope. However short-lived and ultimately fruitless they were, we had moments of hope in the hospital. They were heartbreaking in their own way when the hope was ripped away, but we had something small to hang on to. And we had our boy to comfort, whether he could hear us or not. Now we know what it all amounted to and there is no hope, no comforting, only heartbreak.

One year ago today, Kallie and I were told we had to make a choice. We had to choose to let our son live or die. I regret many things about that time, but our final decision is not one of them. As much as I long to hold Artemis in my arms now, even if that meant taking care of his every need and bodily function, it would not have been fair to him. As selfless as it would be to commit our lives to caring for him, I still feel it would have been more selfish to pull his unwilling body through life just so we could have him by our side.

There is no point in wishing away the past or dreaming of an impossible future. Yet I can't help imagining what life could have been. I can't help but replay those moments, wishing we had done something differently.

I am sure each year's anniversary will become easier. I have been told that by others in similar situations many times. But that relief feels like its own kind of torture. I don't want it to be easier. I want to wallow in this pain and never forget how excruciating that time was. But it is already easier to bear than it was 6 months ago, and 6 months ago was easier than 10 months ago. It is how the world and our minds work, both fortunately and unfortunately. Therapists often describe fresh grief as a ball that fills the jar of your life. The ball never shrinks, but the jar can grow. More room will slowly appear in the jar in the form of new experiences, new loves, new hopes, making the ball of grief less all-encompassing, but still there just the same as it was. I can feel that beginning to happen which is a relief, but tinged with guilt and makes me miss Artemis all the more.

I miss your smile, your laugh, your brilliance, your love, your goofiness, your tears and tantrums, your inquisitive nature, your never-ending craving for adventure and discovery. I miss the weight of you in my arms and your constant presence in my life. I will continue to long of a future with you in it and regret that we will never know the person you should have become. Luboo, always.