My monkey

From the moment Max was born, he was my monkey.  That was his nickname and that was his mascot.  Whenever someone saw some really good monkey stuff, it was Max's.  He had outfits, and chairs, and stuffed animals.  It flowed off my tongue and I knew that when he was big enough to really notice, he would identify with the little guys who came to visit our deck in Costa Rica every evening.  Sometimes the monkey turned into punky (as in punkin), but mostly he stayed a monkey.  My little monkey. My baby.

Today I am not sure I can get out of bed.  It has been 3 months since Max stopped breathing, 3 months since I did too.  It is still totally unbelievable to me.  Ted says it isn't unbelievable to him.  This is just our life.  This is what happened to us.  This is what happened to our son.  This is what we have to live with.  I guess I am in the bargaining stage.  I cannot accept it to be true.  I would die without Max!  And that is the cruelest part - I didn't die without Max.  I am still here, thinking about my little monkey all day long