He would have been 22 years old in 3 months. Just another quarter of a year, and he would have taken another step toward the wisdom that comes with the passage of time. Maybe that quarter-year would have brought a clearer visions of what his life could become. But even that brief chance at clarity was not to be.

He was not a happy young man. The youngest of a set of twin boys, he always tried to measure up to his brother, 10 minutes older in birth order but light-years beyond him in the skills and appearances. At least, this was "truth" to the youngest twin’s mind. He always saw himself as "the lesser." In his eyes, he never did measure up. In his mind, he never would.

The twins were born 10 weeks early, the result of their mother's short stature and their shared space. The twins spend their first 3 weeks of life on ventilators and in incubators. While tubes fed them, slowly but surely, their body weights increased from around 2 pounds to 4 pounds - the goal they would have to reach before they could be sent home. There were other hurdles to overcome in the "primitive" neonatal intensive care units of 1980 but the tiny infants faced them all and cleared each one.

Both of the boys' parents prayed each night before they went to bed. The mother, simplistically, for them to have "another good day" and an ounce or, maybe, two of body weight to be added to their tiny frames. Their father, a doctor, had more searching prayers. He prayed for them to resolve their lung immaturity without the stress of what could be a quickly-fatal pneumonia. He knew that, in a nursery, many deadly bacteria and viruses lurked, eager to take out a weak prey. He prayed that the anemia that comes with prematurity would not causes the boys to have to undergo yet another blood transfusion. He prayed that their jaundice - the yellowing of their skin from the degradation products of dying red blood cells - would not affect their immature and vulnerable brains. If the toxic yellow pigment breeched the blood-brain barrier, the little boys would be permanently damaged. He prayed that their livers would mature and start clearing the waste products of hemolysis and protect their brains just a few weeks longer. For the first time, he hated his medical training because it was a curse of infinite "what if’s." The confident doctor was reduced to a terrified father knew how little room there was in a 2 pound infant for error. For the first time in his life, he resented his wife's ignorance. She had no inkling of the medical calamities that were possible. But it would be cruel to tell her that the death of their twin blessing was possible at any minute and from many possible assaults. The isolation of his knowledge and his wife's unknowing bliss was always protected but the price the young father/doctor paid was mental and heart-wrenching anguish.

After 6 weeks. the magic 4 pound goal was reached. The little boys, still fragile and smaller than most newborns, were finally able to nurse from a bottle. They would go home with their relieved and grateful parents. There were still precautions to be taken but they could finally sleep in the little nursery waiting for them at home. With their size and still weakened state, they could only take 2 ounces of formula at a time. They would have to be fed every 4 hours. So, the parents fell into a precise ritual. The doctor would work his regular clinic at the hospital and the mother would tend to the twins. When the doctor came home, the mother would sleep for 4-5 hours while the father would take over the feeding, changing, and rocking the tiny pair to sleep. When his shift was over, he would wake up the mother and she would assume the ritual while the doctor would finally sleep and try to rest up for the next days work. It was not something either complained about and it was something so regimented that it became second nature to the young couple.

As this crisis passed and the boys rapidly grew into toddlers, then healthy children and then teenagers, all the worst seemed as if a distant dream. It became the subject of tiresome stories that always began "Remember when the twins were born..." As the boys muddled through high school and graduated, the parents assumed that their beloved bookend boys were too strong and healthy to live anything but long, happy lives. But life has fateful ways to shatter hopeful illusions and deceive starry-eyed parents.

He had come home from work - menial, "minimum wage," outdoor work - early that summer day, five years ago. He told his mother he had a headache and went to his room to lie down. The next morning, his mother came in to check on the youngest twin. He wouldn't rouse with the usual "Time to get up, Danny. Danny? Time to wake up. Do you want some breakfast?" She went over to shake the, now, young man out of his sleep when she discovered something horribly unexpected. The youngest twin was morbidly cold and stiff. Danny was dead.

The mother's call roused the father, long-departed from their marriage, from his early morning sleep. The father, long since moved out of the house, had become conditioned to expect bad news accompanying such an untimely call. Was Danny acting up again? Had he come home late, angry or belligerent again? But, this time, the mother’s voice had a different tone. When Danny's mother hysterically described the state she had found the youngest son in, the father already knew that the worst had happened. The drive to his former home was the longest 5 miles the doctor had ever driven. His mind was racing as fast as the car's tires as they rolled along the familiar roadway. His mind generated questions, rapid fire: Why? What happened? Back to "Why?" again. Could he really be....no, let’s just get to the house.

The remainder of that fateful morning was a blur. And, the magnitude of the sorrow doesn't call for details. My son Danny, the youngest twin, was dead. The date was May 22, 2002. Five years ago.

It's not simply that one remembers tragedies that change lives only on their anniversaries. Anniversaries only serve to sharpen the knife that inflicts the cuts of remorse and sadness. The wounds are there every day. The death of my youngest son - one of the twins who had fought so long and so hard in their incubators to cling to this world at birth - will be the unexplained calamity that will haunt my last thoughts as I leave this earthly existence. It will remain the first thought of every morning and the last of every night in the interim, however long or short that may be.

The passage of time is a mixed blessing. I no longer dwell on "why" or "how" when I reflect on that morning five years ago. Those unanswered questions have drifted aside with time. I now seem to dwell on what was lost. What might Danny have eventually accomplished? What might he have become if his life had been allowed it full measure? Would he have found happiness? Would he have found love? Would he have discovered the calm that his heart so longed for? These, like all the other questions, ultimately have no answers. And, if an explanation was available, I doubt that it would give solace.

When a parent outlives his child, all that parent has left is unanswered questions and self doubt. The questions reside in the part of him that once nourished his hopes and dreams. The doubts that haunt him and deny him peace live in his heart. Perhaps, that is the cost that one incurs for dreams lost. Once, those dreams were so lofty and seemed so possible. Now, they are dark specters that stalk my night and disallow my soul’s contentment. It is a bitter toll which must be paid each day.

I miss my son.