Happy birthday, Gabriel.

My son would have been a year old, today. I'm thankfully numb for the most part; I did have PV class scheduled today but I called my instructor and he said I could come in Tuesday after work, since he was going to be in anyway. I just can't help thinking what Gabriel might have been like. I should be planning the final parts of his birthday party, and I'm sitting here, in an empty house, one that's especially empty today. And I feel guilty for gaining so much after his death: we bought a house, and a new car; Tannah and I both really grew up and we're closer now than ever, and the doctors were finally able to diagnose me.

I know inside that somehow, it was meant to be. Neither of us would have likely survived if I went to term. And the timing...he could have been born before the wedding. Or the day of. He could have been born after school started. Things could have been so much more complicated. Or, he could have survived long enough to experience the pain of being hooked up to machines for his entire existance, and then died.

But no. He was born on a Friday morning, this day last year. I remember seeing his mouth open, evidence that he struggled to breathe for a few minutes, and he died quietly. I remember the look in Tannah's eyes, at Gabriel's birth, at the realization he was a boy (we had been told he was a girl), and at his death. I remember feeling guilty for being the cause of that. And guilty at being so exhausted both physically and emotionally to stay awake much longer after they dressed him and gave me his box. Alot of people don't seem to realise that just because he was premature, it doesn't mean it wasn't a "real" birth. I went through labour, and intense contractions, and he was born as other children are born. He just didn't live very long.

It still hurts more than I can say. My friend Dover, who is in a pipes band, said they are playing tonight and she's putting in a request for The Bells of Dunblane for Gabriel. It's the perfect choice.