I drift off to sleep, and I see my life before he died. His blue eyes, his 2T orange rhinoceros shirt, I hear him say “mama.” My buckle snaps in the drivers seat; I look in the rearview mirror and there he is – 3 car seats deep – in between Lily and Stella. That’s my life. Life is good … in the dark.

I wake up to harsh reality.

He’s dead.

It’s not natural to leave the hospital without your baby. I left with an ocean of tears and not my baby. There is no break. It’s constant. I exited through Hennepin County's double doors without my heart. I’ve been slowing bleeding to death since September 23, 2006. I failed. As a mother I failed. Is it possible to move forward from that? I couldn’t imagine smiling again because smiling meant I was happy. How could I be happy when I saw my baby take his last breath? I have a memory of his eyes closing for the last time burned into soul. I’m trying to breathe for him and I’m failing. I fight each morning to get out of bed. I’m crushed. I want to get lost in my dreams. There is no going back.

No. Going. Back.

For many years I stayed quiet, watching a home-recorded video, snuggling up to a 52 inch TV screen with him paused as he crawled to me. I was alienating myself from most everyone. I was healing. Gaining strength for the rest of this journey – motherhood with 2 living daughters and a dead son.

Over the last 4 years, I’ve given myself permission to heal. Somehow the grief that once consumed me is now silent (sometimes). Jack is not just here in my dreams ... It’s taken years to type that without laughing. I couldn't believe it until the day my sweet Lily told me at the Louisiana Café, “Mommy, you know who we forgot at home?” … “Jack! ... He's in my room. Reading my favorite story. Hurry! We need to get him before he finishes my book!" My heart sank as I knelt on the ground.  A tsunami of tears pour down my cheeks because I am proud of her big brother. I'm silent. Lily grabs my cheeks, "Mommy, don't worry. Jack is home by himself all the time."

I embrace each day I wake up and find him somehow, someway. I hear his pitter-patter in the hallway. I’ll see his blue eyes in the next patient’s room. As I cast a toddler arm, I feel his chubby baby paw in mine.

I try to touch the things he would have touched. Do the things he would have wanted to do.

With this run, I celebrate your 11th birthday. All I ever had, all I ever dreamed, all I ever hoped for, I gave to you my sweet baby.