Six. [and quite possibly the hardest post i will ever write]

By the time this post is finished, it will have been six months since an ultrasound in a quiet hospital room confirmed that Devon was gone. In two days, it will be six months since he was born sleeping. And two days after that, six months since I held him for the last time and said good bye.

I wish I could say that I'm fine now, but the reality is that I'm not. I know that people don't expect me to be all the way fine at this point, but six months just seems like such a long time. Shouldn't I be fine? Shouldn't I not be crying multiple times a week anymore? Shouldn't I be blogging about other things now? Clearly, the answer is no. And that's OK.

When this whole journey started, I didn't know what to do or how to act. I was so lost and emotionally shell-shocked that I honestly have no clue how I made it through those first few weeks without hurting myself or throwing myself off a building. I can honestly say that J, JJ, my parents, my sister and my friends helped get me through those tough first weeks and stop me from considering doing something stupid. Some days, I still feel lost - especially when I think.

Devon would've been six months old. He probably would've had his first teeth coming in, would be trying to crawl and starting on rice cereal. He'd be halfway to his first birthday, and I probably would've been talking to my mom about themes for his party. I'd be watching him and JJ interact, watch JJ be an awesome big brother. Some days, especially when I see all the baby stuff that I tucked away into a spare closet, I wonder how things would've been, should've been.

There are few details that most of the world knows about what happened, but the reality is simple [and something i'm finally willing to talk about]: I fell on August 15. I was in the parking lot of my apartment complex, lost my balance and fell. I hit my stomach, went to the doctor, had an ultrasound and non-stress test, and everything was just fine. I had strict orders to relax and come back in five days for a check-up.

Two days later, as I was driving to Lawton to see my mom, I noticed that Devon wasn't active anymore. I let it ride most of the night, but after drinking a soda and not feeling him move, I knew something was wrong. I drove myself to Reynolds on Fort Sill and was terrified. In my heart, I knew he was gone, but I remember praying all the way to the hospital that he would just move, just kick, tell me he was OK. In my heart, though, I knew he wasn't here anymore.

When a doppler couldn't pick up his heartbeat, the OB on call came in for an ultrasound. His face said it all within seconds, and my world just crashed. Everything was just a big blur after that. I remember the phone calls I had to make, bawling my eyes out, watching the nurses wipe tears from their eyes as they led me to a room to start the induction process. I remember begging for a c-section, but they wouldn't do it. In the end, it was definitely for the best, but at that moment, I just wanted it to be over.

Placental abruption, the doctor said. He said it was a miracle I hadn't bled out, because it was a complete separation. He guessed my body tried to heal it over, but it was too late. I never had any warning signs, which made it even more of a miracle that nothing had happened to me. No telling when it had happened, but it was quick.

The OB said I could wait to go into labor on my own - which I would eventually - or I could induce. I chose to induce without thinking twice, which he agreed with. I don't remember how long I was in labor, because I slept through most of it. The nutrition staff brought me food three times a day, the staff gave me meds when I wanted it, and I got to have as many visitors as I wanted. But I literally slept most of the time I was in the hospital. Emotionally and physically, I just couldn't handle, couldn't process what was happening. I didn't want to. This wasn't supposed to happen to me. I wasn't supposed to lose a child.

Devon was born sleeping at 5:30am on August 19th - my sister's 25th birthday. 5 pounds, 18.5 inches long. He was perfect, with lots of hair and little fingers and toes. I didn't see him at first, but later on that morning, as I signed off papers for his release to a local funeral home and for his death certificate, I asked for him. I'll never forget the moment I got to meet him, got to hold him. He was perfect. Still is perfect, in my mind. I have pictures of us, pictures of him, pictures of him with my mom and my sister...those are pictures I will always cherish. I held him as long as I wanted, then fell asleep again. Again, I just couldn't handle it - and my ridiculously high blood pressure showed it. The hospital wouldn't release me until that was back under control, so I stayed longer than I thought. When I was finally released, J drove us home, and I cried the whole way. I got back to my parents' house, and I just lost it. I cried so much those first few weeks.

I know I'm being pretty vague on details, but I just don't want to relive it all in words, because I always relive it in my mind. I remember every freaking moment of those last days, every freaking moment of my hospital stay, of planning Devon's memorial and writing his obituary, of saying good bye for the last time before we had him cremated. I remember it all, and I always will. The reality of the situation doesn't hurt as much as before, but it still hurts a lot. It always will, I think.

I miss my sweet boy every single day. I miss all the milestone I don't get to have with him, miss all the experiences we won't have. But after six months, I don't beat myself up over his loss anymore. I don't think about the fall that started it all. I don't think about what should've been, about his due date, about how things should be so different. Thinking like that makes me bitter, and depressed, and it sets me back. The reality is, he was too perfect for Earth. God needed him to be my angel, and I feel like he has been. We all know I'm not a very spiritual person at times, but when it comes to losing Devon, that's all I've got. I've got my faith to reassure me that he is watching over me up there, that he is surrounded by lots of family who went before him, who greeted him with open arms and are now raising him. I have my faith to reassure me that he is happy up there, that he will never know anything less than the unconditional love that I will always have for him.

I'm sure some of you are crying at this point. Hell, I cried through this whole post. But after getting this out, I feel like an emotional weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I'm not ashamed of what happened, because Devon is still my son. He will always be my son, even though he's not here physically. But he will always, always remain in my heart. Always.