Time.  They say time erases all wounds. 

I'm not so sure.

Next month, it will be two years since my precious baby boy, Weston Harold, died.  He was only six months old.

Weston had all sorts of health problems, among them being an undiagnosed "syndrome", an imperforate anus, webbed fingers and toes, a cleft palate, and spasticity in his limbs. 

Let's face it:  he was a medical nightmare, a regular mess.

Yet I loved him.  He was my son.  While others couldn't look past his deformed facial features or obvious medical problems, I saw a child who needed his mamma, and a child who needed love, nurturing, and care.

He was beautiful. 

I tried my best to comfort him, care for his needs.  I changed his diapers, dispensed his meds through his feeding tubes, made sure he was clean, happy, comfortable, took care of him when he was sick, visited him whenever Weston ended up in the hospital for what seemed like the millionth time.

I was a very good mamma to my baby boy.

Then came that horrible morning of October 20, 2007.

I went to check in on him, just as I always did, several times during the night.  What I heard, saw ripped me to the core.  My son was struggling to breathe, more than usual.  I got scared, so I called for the ambulance.

When the paramedics got to him, he was already gone.  He left this world that quickly. 

I was devastated.  My world, my baby boy, my angel-child, was gone.  He was now with Jesus.  Happy.  Healthy.  Whole.

I don't remember much after this time.  All I remember were people coming over, bringing food or other things, sharing their sympathy wishes with me.

I still don't remember much.  The funeral.  The people coming to pay their last respects to my child.  The sad ride to the cemetary, where little Weston, in his pristine, shiny white casket with the blue teddy bears on it, was buried.  None of that.  (The only way I can remember these details is from what other people have told me about it.)

All I remember is the paramedics telling me that Weston had died, then screaming hysterically afterwards.

It's like a nightmare that never ends.

Now that The Anniversary is fastly approaching, the nightmares of Weston struggling for air, hearing his labored, gasping breathing, seeing the paramedics work on my son, and hearing the news of his passing come fast and furious.  It seems every night I wake up in a sheen of sweat, panting for air, and tears soaking my pillow.

I have tried to move on past the grief; the truth is, I can't.  My son didn't have to deserve to die like he did; he was only a baby!  He didn't deserve to suffer all these medical problems; he should have had a normal, carefree life, free of doctors, medications, surgeries, pain, tubes!!

Angry?  Yes.  Angry at God for allowing this to happen.  If He is so loving, why does he condemn an innocent little child (namely mine!) to a life full of suffering and hopelessness?  Why would He put a mother through so much agony??  I just don't understand Him sometimes ...

I haven't been to church since before Weston died; doesn't look like I'll be going back any time soon.  All people do is judge me or say things that I don't really want to hear when all I am doing is trying to move on with my life.  Or they stare at me and say, "Oh, look at that poor woman; she has a damaged child!"  It's more than my heart can take; therefore, I stay away.

Or they tell me to pray.  Why should I?  God didn't heal my baby boy when he was alive; why should I pray to Him when all He did was allow my son to suffer like he did??  Right now, I have had it up to past my eyebrows with religious platitudes; I've had it with God!!

I don't need God in my life; all I want is for Him to give me my little Weston back!!

*To be continued.*