Live to the Max

The first day, I could barely sleep the night before, I was so excited to meet you.

The last day, I drove through the night with no sleep, I was so scared to lose you.



The first day, the beeps of hospital monitors were the background noise for your entrance to the world.

The last day, a beeping smoke detector in need of batteries was the background noise of your exit.



The first day, I sighed in relief when I saw your chest expand as you took your first breath.

The last day, I cried out in terror when I saw your chest was perfectly still.



The first day, I examined your face so carefully, saying to myself, “How precious, remember every detail.”

The last day, I examined your face so carefully, saying to myself, “Please, don’t remember him this way.”



The first day, I pressed your cheek against mine and felt your unbelievably soft, warm, baby skin.

The last day, I pressed my cheek against yours and felt the prickles from your grown-man whiskers and felt the chill of your skin.

The first day, the room was filled with professionals encouraging me, “You did good, you’ve got a healthy baby boy.”

The last day, the room filled with professionals encouraging me, “You did everything you could, he was already gone.”



The first day, the news of your arrival spread quickly amongst excited friends and family.

The last day, the news of your departure spread quickly amongst devasted friends and family.



The first day, kind people rallied to bring meals, diapers, and gifts.

The last day, kind people rallied to bring meals, condolences, and prayer.



The first day I thought, “How am I going to do this?”

The last day I thought, “How am I going to do this?”



The first day, we had the future.

The last day, I had only the past.



The first day, I held you and knew this was the best day of my life.

The last day, I held you and knew this was the worst day of my life.



The first day was the beginning.

The last day was the end.

There just weren’t enough days in between.