Thursday, February 14, 2013

I hate Valentine's Day.

Not because it is froofy and contrived and unnecessarily pink.

Okay, maybe a little because it's froofy and contrived and unnecessarily pink.

But mostly, I hate it because it's the seventh anniversary of the incident that robbed my son of a normal life before he even had a chance.

I don't want to get into exact details. I trusted the wrong person with the care and keeping of my infant son for just a few short hours, and in that time he was shaken and had at least one bone broken. He almost lost his life because of that person's actions. He was very lucky to survive. As it stands now, he has a severe disability that prevents him from doing much on his own. He cannot walk, stand, eat, or dress by himself. He cannot speak. He's a happy, bouncy kid, and that may be his only protection from realizing what he never got the chance to have. I work with him, but while six and a half years of therapy have helped, it has not given him the ability to really do what a typical child his age can do.

I will never be free of the guilt of leaving him with that person. For the rest of his life, he will be forced to deal with the consequences while the person who stole the chances of a normal life from him is free, because there were no witnesses to the crime and not enough evidence to press charges, let alone convict.

I don't talk about it much. I seldom mention it. But this year, it's really bothering me. All the froofy and contrived and unnecessary pink just adds a layer of irritation to the pain of it.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.