Without.

I've lost something.  It's important.

While on a celebratory trip after I ran the marathon, I bought a memento.  A piece of jewelry to commemorate my accomplishment.  I bought a ring that easily slides on and off my thumb that reads "It's not the destination, it's the journey".  A profound statement, considering the year of hell that I committed to, and stuck with.  A journey that took me on the other side of a finish line, a sweet destination.

Training and running that race was the hardest accomplisment I had completed in the short years I have had on this earth.  Physically, it was agonizing.  Mentally, it broke me down. 

Until this past year.

I thought running a silly little race was hard.  Mothering a dead child is much harder.

So, now I've lost my ring.  My perfect, silver thumb ring that was more subtle than wearing my medal out in public.  People look at you funny when you wear a medal around your neck to the movies.  But it's a badge.  It symbolizes what I went through.  How proud I am of myself.  I feel the same about Quinn, but people also look at you funny when you talk about your dead son.

So, I can't wear my medal, and I can't talk about my son.

Every significant accomplishment we overcome, defines us.  If I look back at the picture of me after I crossed the finish line, I can see life.  Youth.  Health.  Hope.  Potential.  What you can't see in this picture is the physical pain I am feeling at this point, and how good I am at hiding it.  I've perfected the art of hiding pain in all forms.  But, in this picture, the fact is that Frank and I are happy and healthy, and about to embark on another journey.

Parenthood.

I wore that ring through many journeys and destinations. I climbed several mountains wearing that ring, literally, not figuratively speaking.  I wore it through my pregnancy with Quinn.  It was on my finger when I read the pregnancy test.  It was there for my first ultrasound.  I wore it through 18 hours of labor, and it was on my thumb when I held my son for the first time.  This ring could've fit around his ankle, because Quinn's body was just tiny enough to fit in the palm of your hand (not including his arms and legs).

The last place I remembered wearing it, was at the hospital that day.  It has been exactly one year since I have seen this ring.

I went looking for my ring this morning, determined to find it.  It hasn't been on my finger for quite some time, and I needed it to be there.  I needed to remind myself that I can be great, that I can accomplish anything I want.

I looked in all the usual places.  Not in my jewelry box.  Not in my make-up drawer.  Not mixed in with my hair ties.  Not in any of my purses.  I tried to remember if there was any bags from the hospital that we shoved into the back of a closet, forgotten and disposed of.  I entered the remodeled baby's room, the early morning sun blazing through the wooden blinds, in search of a piece of that snowy February day, hoping that my ring would be amongst all that tragedy.  Opening the closet, I searched for a plastic hospital bag, but instead I found a basket filled with cards and small gifts that had been given to us after the news had spread of Quinn's early arrival.

A book titled "I'll Hold You In Heaven" that I've never read.

Sympathy cards from just about everyone we know.

Cards that were attached to flower bouquets.

"Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul", that has never been opened.

A beautifully framed poem, that I am not ready to hang just yet.

A gorgeous silver bracelet engraved with 'Quinn' that was delivered one week after his arrival, almost to the minute, from my sister-in-law Jennifer.

And a mountain of cards from my students.  I can't imagine what it was like in my 3rd grade classroom that day, or what was going through their minds.

"Dear Mrs. P...  Please feel better.  We miss you.  I'm so sorry about what happened.  I hope that when you see our smiling faces, we'll warm your heart."

But, no hospital bag.  I'm pretty sure that we didn't leave that hospital with anything but the clothes on our backs and the small box of things the nurse handed me.  It contained the shirt I dressed Quinn in after I bathed him, the half empty bottle of soap, his hat, the cast moldings of his feet, and his ID bracelet.  Empty arms became arms full of painful mementos.  A lovely parting gift.

It occured to me, as I sat there defeated, that I haven't lost this ring.  It can be replaced.  It's currently misplaced, not lost.

Quinn is lost.  Irreplaceable.

My ring is just missing, and can be replaced.  Will I replace it?  Probably not.  I got the message.

"It's not the destination, it's the journey."

I wish that the pretty red-headed lady that I bought that ring from would've told me that the journey is not always an easy one. 

Today, we quietly celebrate the early arrival of our only child one year ago.  There will be no parties, no balloon releases, no gifts, no one-year-old hands in a cake, no "Happy Birthdays!" in unison.  Frank and I choose to remember by buying new sunglasses.

See, the ones we currently own are worn out from hiding the tears of the past year.  We need new ones to get us through another year without him.


So, this is what I'm singing to my baby boy today:




So you lost your trust
And you never should have
No,you never should have

But don't break your back
If you ever say this
But don't answer that

In a bullet proof vest
With the windows all closed
I'll be doing my best
I'll see you soon

In a telescope lens
And when all you want is friends
I'll see you soon

So they came for you
They came snapping at your heels
They come snapping at your heels

But don't break your back
If you ever say this
But don't answer that

In a bullet proof vest
With the windows all closed
I'll be doing my best
I'll see you soon

In a telescope lens
And when all you want is friends
I'll see you soon

And oh,
And oh, you lost your trust
And oh, you lost your trust
No, don't lose your trust
No, you lost your trust