July 4th. Four years.

There are so many forms of grief when it comes to losing a child. There is the pain of a miscarriage, stillborn, infant loss, losing a child when your son or daughter is an adolescent and losing a child when you're older. But the grief I know is that of losing one of your multiples. This is for all of you parents who have experienced that. Each grief is different. One isn't harder than the other and I'm not discrediting any of it. But I only know the pain of losing a multiple. July 4th was my favorite holiday. I've met a great deal of important people in my life on this holiday. As a baby, I met my best friend. She was and still is the friend closest to me in the world. She knows me better than anyone. We can text and she knows something is wrong. So the 4th was my favorite. I adore fireworks. I wanted to be a pyrotechnician at one point (yes, seriously). They're beautiful and everyone loves them. But July 4th of 2014 changed that holiday for me. It's been exactly 4 years since I last held James on my chest as he took his last breath...on July 4th, 2014. The trick to surviving for me has been to not think about it. That sounds sort of martyr-ish. But we have too much to do. I'm afraid, no, I'm scared to death, that if I start thinking about it, I won't be able to recover. I'll start crying, melt into an unrecognizable version of myself and never be able to stand again. My babies have 43 hours a week of varying types of therapies. That ranges from ABA therapy for autism, to occupational and speech therapy. I don't have time to fall into that heap. So one day a year, I remember. July 4th I allow myself to feel it. I think of the weight of his tiny body on my chest. I think of the feel of his little feet and how his hands were so small and light that it was barely a kiss of a feeling on my skin. I remember his palm against my chest. I can feel how his body felt almost like a bird. He was so small but so real. He was there. I try to not think about it throughout the year. But he's always there. I see him when Mat gives me his big goofy smile and I remember James would have had an identical grin. There are occasions when Mat and Charlie do things simultaneously and I wonder if James would be doing it as well. Every time I see the three of them, I see the fourth child right next to them. Every morning, noon and night when I make their three meals, I remember there should be a fourth. It's a split second of longing to pull out that additional plate, but it's there. His name is on my mind when someone asks "are they triplets?" and I have to decide whether to tell them or just say my normal "there are three". Because that is what makes people less uncomfortable. If there is one thing I've learned over the last 4 years it's that this topic makes people uncomfortable. No one seems to know what to say or how to say it. And they immediately look at me differently and I feel badly that they are uncomfortable. So I have to make a conscious decision every day, multiple times a day, whether or not to talk about my son and risk the awkward silence, or keep his name to myself and feel the sting of the pain in a different way. It comes up this time of year. It's at the forefront of my brain and I worry that I wear it on my face. So I avoid public parties, events, even my workout group. Because I can't hide it but I don't want to create tension with others. I hate it. I hate that every joyous moment with my 3 survivors is laden with pain. And then the guilt. So much guilt that I when I look at them, I see him. Sure, it's not always in a pained way. Miriam talks about him lately. And Mat carries his picture frequently. So sometimes I feel them remembering him too. But I don't have the question of "I wonder what he would look like" because I know. He and Charlie and Mat were identical. So I know what James would look like. I know exactly what I'm missing. It's simply a lonely feeling. I imagine there are other moms of multiples reading this and I'm sorry if they have lost one as well. I know that lonesome feeling. And I am sorry that you have to hold it in most of the time. I'm so sorry that each day is filled with tiny silent moments of missing your baby. I'm sorry that you have to endure this for the rest of your life. I'm sorry that you have to worry about making others uncomfortable. I'm sorry that you feel like people are forgetting him or her. But I'm not. I remember your little ones. I remember Bea, Kevin, Liam, Noah, Emma, Kaiya, Zane, Leo, Landry, and so many more. I remember those born sleeping, and those multiples who you had to carry sleeping. I remember all of your littles. And my heart breaks for you today and every day. But today most of all, I remember my baby. My first born son. My sweet baby James Gideon. I see you every day. I see you next to Mat with the monster trucks I see you at the dinner table and in the car seat. I see you in the stroller. I see you in each photo I take and every adventure we have. And I will remember your last breath and your last beat of your heart until my last breath and the last beat of my heart.