Today, Alistair Reese would have been two years old.

Alistair died a little over a year ago.  He was not quite one year old.  He died of pneumonia.  He had numerous medical problems, among them being born with a deformed face, a cleft palate, underdeveloped ears, severe heart and respiratory issues, and no anus.  He spent all of his life in the hospital: he never even left the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU).

He was very sick.

Doctors held no hope for my son.  They said if he lived to be a year old, it would be a miracle.  They said he would be hopelessly brain damaged, possibly even blind and deaf.  The prognoses that the doctors gave for my son were bleak at best.

It was the worst news that any set of parents could ever receive.  

In his short life, Alistair has endured five major operations on his heart, face, anus, cleft palate, and intestines.  He also suffered numerous complications, including several strokes, heart (and breathing) arrests, gangrene of his intestine (two feet of it; this resulted in a permanent colostomy), and repeated bouts of pneumonia.  Each day brought a new set of problems; we never knew if little Alistair would even survive yet another day; yet, somehow, he did.

The little guy proved to be such a little fighter, and it gave all of us who loved him best a sense of courage.

Then came the day when Alistair caught pneumonia for the umpteenth time.  This time, nothing could be done.  He died when his heart quit beating: his poor, abused, sickly body couldn't take any more.  No matter what the medical staff did, they could not bring my baby boy back.  His body had been through far too much already: it was time to let him die in peace.  It was time for him to fly into the waiting, strong, loving arms of Jesus.

When Alistair left us, we were in shock, yet we also felt a huge sense of relief, for it meant that he would no longer suffer.  He was now a little angel in Heaven, and he was now healed.  Whole.  Perfect.  He was a normal little boy again, with a new body, and a brand new (and probably  much happier) life.

I remember little of the funeral itself, excepting the fact that the casket was closed.  I didn't want people to see how sick (or how deformed) he was.  Maybe it was wrong, but I also couldn't bear to see him in a state of eternal rest.  I'd already been through enough when he was alive:  I am sure that looking at him lying in that tiny casket would have put me over the edge.

Today, however, I am forced to remember everything.  As I sit here, looking at picture after picture after picture of my precious little angel-child, I have tears streaming down my cheeks as my heart splits open in a sea of pain.  I miss my baby boy as much now as I did on the day he died.  

I wonder so many things:  what color hair does he have?  What does he think of the majestic sights and sounds of that faraway realm called Heaven?  What does he think about all the other angels and seeing Jesus and His Heavenly Father and all the other denizens of the Bible?  

I am sure Alastair must be having a ball up there!

Happy birthday, my baby boy!  You have no idea how I, your mother here on Earth, misses you!!  Oh, if we could be together again, even if only for a minute ... it would really make my day!!  I love you so much!!

End of part one.