Here we are.

In a place I never thought I would be.

Five whole years have passed since I held you for the first and last time.

Each year this week gets harder. Each year I am thrown back into a whiplash of moments.

In one sense, I never want that whiplash to disappear because those moments are the only memories I have of you.

With each year that passes, those moments get more and more surreal - some feeling like such a distant memory, did it really happen? and some feeling so painstakingly and uncomfortably real and raw that it overtakes my entire body.

Last night, your dad and I stayed awake until about 1 a.m. - I think I stayed awake hoping I could distract my mind from racing when I tucked myself into bed.

Between episodes of a show we watch together, I would cry ... being thrown back into the night before we met you.

I remember being in the triage, scared to death of the unknown. Ironic, because I never was scared of the possible outcome of losing you. I was scared of having you. With it being my first pregnancy, I had no concept of what to expect. Who would've ever imagined, I should've been scared of the worst-case-scenario.We returned home that night (June 7) with reassurance that you would arrive soon, but not quite yet.I walked through the motions of my nighttime routine as normal.

And then, fall asleep.

Looking back, each year after, on this night I can't help but run through all of the questions, second guesses and "what if's" ...

• what if I would've just stayed in triage and had them monitor me
• what if I was educated on what a "kick count" was and kept track of that, would I have caught it?
• what if I wouldn't have fallen asleep, would something have alerted me through the night that something wasn't right
• did I sleep on my back at some point throughout the night?
• what if I would've eaten healthier throughout the pregnancy, I did have those chocolate cake balls at the party we attended the day before
• did I drink enough water? was I dehydrated?
• maybe I should've walked more?

Last night, I was definitely experiencing the timeline of your death in real time all over again. .. I woke multiple times each time mid-anxiety attack.

I am reminded of the night in the hospital after we held you for the last time. I did something similar to this there, too. Drifting off to sleep and having dreams of what had just happened hours before all over again so meticulous and detailed that I wake ... and am already crying. You know the grief is deep when your body just reacts without control. It was like watching a movie of someone else losing a baby - an out of body experience ... except, that someone else is me.

I woke this morning to your brother, Oscar, babbling in his crib. Man ... that was hard. He just turned one. All the things I have gotten to experience with him ... I didn't with you.

It's not fair.

It's not ideal.

It's not what I wanted.

It's still not what I want.

I moved from his room, to Ruby's room to wake her for the day. She soon will be four. She speaks of you often. We talk about life and death and the "why's" - which sometimes leaves me speechless because as I explain what happened, it doesn't even make sense to me, as an adult. How is it supposed to make sense to her?

All morning, my body physically aches. It aches to move, it aches to think and my ability to focus is practically non-existent.

The following hours will continue to suck. Like, big time suck. I will repeatedly get pulled into a trance of moments, frozen in time, embedded in my brain. With each hour that passes, it gets closer to your arrival, 5 years ago. At some point, I will ugly cry - heck, probably multiple times.

While most other days of the year, I praise God in all his glory and can see the good ... today that is fogged with the looming and depressing state of death. And just how real death is.

While most other days I can see all the things I have learned, and all of the things that changed me and how those principals have connected me with amazing people and taught me a deeper layer of my meaning and worth ... today I feel like a failure. A failure of a mom. I did my best, but my best wasn't enough.

Today, I will bask in the sorrow.

Tomorrow will be different ... maybe it will be better, or maybe it won't.

But, today ... today, I'm sad.

Today, I miss you with every ounce of my soul, it hurts.

Today, I will experience June 8, 2017 all over again.