Shortly after I lost my baby boy, I was sitting alone in the livingroom leafing through the literature I had been given at the hospital. In particular, I found a pamphlet filled with information about what to expect after a loss, how to make wise decisions, and the importance of allowing one's self to grieve. It was peppered with beautiful quotes and poems about loss and love. One was a few lines from John Denver's song "Sunshine on my Shoulders." It had been written by someone who had given birth to a son at 38 weeks. He had died in the womb the night before his due date. I saw pictures of the parents holding the sleeping little one with a bittersweet mixture of pride and grief on their faces. As I studied the photos of those brave parents, I realized that I had just joined a very unlucky, but wonderfully compassionate community. No one else would understand what I was feeling except for them. Later that night, I was looking for something to post on my Facebook page. I wanted my friends to know that I had lost my son without having to say it. I had told them I would let them know somehow, and I knew that my close friends would get it without me saying anything. So, I googled the lyrics to "Sunshine on my Shoulders" and found exactly the passage I had been looking for -- something that I would say to my son if I could: "If I had a tale that I could tell you I'd tell a tale sure to make you smile If I had a wish that I could wish for you I'd make a wish for sunshine all the while" Today my living son and I were driving home from swimming lessons. It had been one of the first particularly sunny days in several weeks. As I drove alongide the Connecticut river, I was thinking how beautiful it looked with the sun playing on its surface. I was actually starting to see the beauty in my surroundings again and it felt good. My son started asking me to turn the radio on. I almost didn't since he sort of yelled it and we are working on developing manners. I asked him to say, "please." I waited a moment for him to say the word, and once he did, I turned the radio on. And what was playing? Sunshine on my Shoulders ... but not just any part ... the part right when my special verse starts. It was the first time I had even heard the song in years. I certainly couldn't listen to it after I lost my son even though it played in my head for a solid week. I began to cry, but this time it was with so much happiness and gratittude for having just been given this incredible gift--coincidence or not. I was so proud of both my sons right then--the one who gave new meaning to an old song and the one demanded that I play the radio at just the right moment. As I got out of the car, I looked up at the bright blue sky and blew a kiss to Jason, then whispered, "Thank you." And this time, I remembered to blow an extra kiss to baby Gem, who shall no longer be forgotten. It was an hour later when I realized that the song was playing exactly two weeks to the hour that I felt my son kick for the last time ... when I knew I had lost him.
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