How to Kill a Conversation
The dreaded question usually follows my answering the question concerning the number and gender of my offspring. Three daughters and five granddaughters is my simple reply. What?? No boys?? Follows immediately. Ok, you asked for it.
Well, I had a son, but he died of crib death or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) in infancy. Their feeble attempt at humor is crushed immediately. I feel compelled to follow with the following statement, I really don’t care about gender, it’s all about health. There’s always agreement with that.
End of discussion.
It will never be the end for me, I now realize. This date of Aaron’s birthday, September 23, will always hold challenging memories. That’s how it is, especially for the mother. How could it be otherwise? As long as I’m alive, I’m the Keeper of the Flame. I can testify that he was born, lived only a few months and then left us. The worst thing for me is for the world to forget that he lived. He was too young to have developed preferences; a favorite toy or a just a learned word. But he was my son. Yes, I had one! An infant I tried to raise to maturity was not meant for this world. Two healthy, wonderful daughters were to follow. I was made whole again. Or almost whole. Except on September 23, when I am truly broken hearted.