I wish I could erase the memories from my head, but they keep returning ...

Last month, our son, Matthew, who has Down syndrome and other health problems, died.  He was only six years old.  We are still in a state of shock and disbelief.  It seems like we're in some sort of nightmare that we can't wake up from ...

The last six years have been ones of uncertainty, fear, and despair, but they have also been full of hope, light, and joy.  I never realized just how one little boy who had been born with one extra chromosome could change our lives or the lives of others.  Matthew was such a sweet-natured little guy with red hair, a fat, round moon face, big blue eyes that had a mischevious tilt to them (part of the syndrome, but no less charming), and a snub nose that seemed to run constantly (poor little kid had allergies).

He was adorable.

He also had serious allergies as I just said (he used oxygen and had to have breathing treatments just about every night), and he had serious heart issues and by the time he was four, he had already endured three heart surgeries (and would possibly face more in the coming years).  Living with him was like a walking time bomb:  you never knew when we would have to summon the paramedics because of another heart or breathing spell.  It was terrifying.

It devastated us that our son was born handicapped, but we were determined to give him as normal, and as happy of a life, as possible, even with his hospital stays, surgeries, or times of illness.  He laughed just about every time; his laughter sounded like angels to us.  He was a very happy-go-lucky fellow.

We really felt that Matthew would pull through this latest crisis.  He had sufffered a very bad asthma attack.  We were awakened in the middle of the night by the unsettling, piercing scream of the heart monitors.  We didn't know what was going on at first; then my senses took hold, and fear gripped my heart.  Matthew was in some sort of trouble; he needed help as quickly as possible.

My husband and I rushed into our son's room.  Matthew lay on his back, face sweaty and pale, lips blue.  He was lying so still, so still, his eyes rolled back into their sockets.  It was terrifying beyond belief.  My husband touched Matthew, shook his shoulder, as he loudly called his name.  No response.  That was when he told me to call for paramedics because Matthew wasn't breathing.

I don't remember much after that; everything that followed is a blurry montage of noise, confusion, running around, screaming, tears .... I think I was the one screaming; I honestly can't remember.

All I really do remember is sitting in the waiting area of the ER, praying, hoping, wishing for some sort of miracle for our son to pull through his latest asthmatic crisis, then the doctor coming up to us, a look of sadness on his face, as he broke the news to us.  Matthew didn't make it; Matthew had expired about ten minutes after he'd been brought in to the ER.  The medical team had worked on him for an hour, but without any success.

My mind shut down after that as I sank into a world of blackness.  I don't remember much until the day of the funeral, when all these people kept coming up to us, saying they were sorry for our loss, and hugging us tightly.

So that is where things stand now.  I am still in a state of shock.  I still can't believe that our laughing, loving little boy, Matthew Hezekiah Whitt, is gone.  One minute he was here, the next --  poof!  Just like that, and he's gone on to his new home, where he now runs among the angels, healthy, happy, and whole.  He lives with God, Jesus, and all of the other denizens of the Bible, his struggles on earth at long last over for all eternity.

Meanwhile, Charlie (my husband), my other son (Chance), our daughter (Allegra), and myself are only left with memories of this special little boy who left our world much too soon.  We still cry just about every day; we still can't believe that Matthew has gone on and left us; we miss him so much we don't think we could stand another day.  We feel a tangle of emotions: fear.  Anger.  Bitterness.  Jealousy.  Confusion.  Shame.  Regret.  So much sadness, so much pain.  We don't think life is fair, and we rage at God for allowing Him to take our child, but knowing that He had some sort of "purpose" for it.  Right now, we don't understand it, but perhaps we will, someday.

I am crying again, so I will go.  Will these tears ever stop????  Will the pain ever go away????  Oh, God, how we miss you, Matthew Hezekiah!!!!