Yesterday marked two months without our sweet baby. Two whole months since the last time we held him in our arms instead of our memory. Do you know how much time makes up two months? I do. 8 weeks. 60 days. 1,460 hours. 87,600 minutes. It’s too long.
Earlier in the week we had discussed taking Rowan to visit the fire station, they were going to give him a tour and let him see the rigs. But as Sunday drew nearer, I got too anxious, too upset at the idea so I sat down and spoke with Justin about it. The last time we were in the presence of emergency responders, they were in our home trying to resuscitate our baby. I still cannot even hear the sound of sirens without feeling my heart drop and my breath get shallow. Rowan also seemed to be anxious about the idea, when it was suggested it to him he grew extremely quiet and seemed to drift off in thought. He remembers that day, he remembers why they had come to our home. We came to the conclusion that it just wasn’t a place we needed to be on the day that would mark two months since his death. Facing that trigger isn’t something Rowan or myself, seem to be ready to approach.
I spent most of the day in thought, and then felt we did need to be somewhere, doing something. On these days that mark an anniversary of Sloan’s death, it tends to be detrimental to be alone with our memories of his death so we usually try to stay busy or be somewhere. We ended up going out to the waterfront with family and to celebrate both my dad and brother’s birthdays. It was exactly the right medicine for us. We walked along the water, watched the sun set, dug our feet into the sand, and found some shells that Rowan said were for his “Baby Sloan”. Then we sat down to dinner as a family and shared plenty of laughter.