Since my son was born I lived in fear, fear of the final news. I started having anxiety and panic attacks. I would become short of breath out of the blue and wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. I could just try to catch my breath, get control over it. But it didn’t always work.
This continued two years.
I’ve missed so many moments of my son’s first two years. I simply couldn’t enjoy it, I was haunted by death every moment since he was born. I remember the pivotal moments of the first outing, first solid foods, first steps, first words, but anything in between is mostly just a blur. The essence is missing.
I know I was there, but who was I at the time? Somebody haunted by a dark shadow with nowhere to hide.
Now when I look at family photos I fill up with sadness. The sadness of having missed out on the purest joy of the greatest gift ever.
Today… I’m simply trying to make up for it.