September 4th marks the day our son Michael officially stopped breathing. One minute we were all packed up and ready to leave the hospital—in the next his lips began to quiver, and we were suddenly marching down a dark road to nowhere.
It was a horrific scene. One of those Grey’s Anatomy moments when everyone comes rushing in. Code blue, red, whatever. Suddenly Michael was their child, no longer mine. I’m shoved out the door—just one more hysterical mom in the hallway, out of the picture, erased from his life.
It’s taken me six years to stop reliving every second of that hour. Still, when I wake on this day I remember that September 4th marks that moment when Michael officially left us.