Today I am washing Jack’s clothes from Boston. It, along with most everything else, is painful. The little shirts that he wore, pjs that he never had on in the hospital, the last pair of shoes that were on his feet give me a stomachache. Again I am crying. Where is my baby and why is he gone?

Those clothes take me back to July 2009 when we were so hopeful (or was it arrogance) that led us to Boston. It was so long ago that we were with Jack in the admissions department, watching him play, running up and down the hall between the surgical admissions office and the cardiology clinic. If I could reach back in time, I would say “Bridget, be careful, make sure this is the right thing to do for Jack.” Lord I feel guilty. We signed those consents, we might as well have been signing his death sentence. The day was warm and bright, we were so full of hope and promise. This was going to be the fix, this was what was going to give Jack his life back. Instead here it is January 2010 and my boy isn’t here. The words, this sucks, doesn’t even cover it.

I miss my child so much it physically hurts. I feel like I let him down, we promised so much and in the end he died so young.

Please don't be mad at me Jack.