Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Two Years Gone

I wrote the following on January 11th,  and I'm just never going to hit publish if I don't do it now. Bah.
In re-reading this, it's highly emotional and I'm crying so if you're not up for reading it or you're having a bad day, I don't blame you for skipping this one. Not at all.


I never really know when to grieve. Of course I grieve everyday, and it's in everything I do. I grieve as I make Grace breakfast, thinking I should be putting her in the high chair, and wrestling Jack into a chair to feed him, too. I grieve wiping crumbs from the chin of a little Blondie boy as he attempts to make his sister smile. I grieve giggles I never heard him make. I grieve all those things which should make up my life, and don't.

The grieving part I struggle with is the conscious decision to grieve on his January 1st birthday, January 9th when he was declared, or January 11th when we last physically held him before his donation surgery... That kind of grief comes along organically. 

So far I can say the 1st seems to take the brunt of my grieving, or at least the anticipation of it. Today isn't much better, and I keep having fits of sobbing while I should be smiling at the things Grace has done.

I just can't believe he's been gone two years. That it has been that long since I held him, smelled him, and kissed him all over. It feels both like ten years and two weeks, all at once.

January 11, 2013 is infinitely better than 2011 or even 2012 when I was half way though my pregnancy with Grace. It takes only a moment to go back to that time in my mind... I remember handing him over to the nurse and they put him in the isolate and we walked with him past our parents as they stood in the hallway (as far as they could so), and then with the nurses to the elevator, on the elevator to the OR, and then to the door of the OR where we kissed him and touched his hand before walking away. I made it about five steps before I stopped and dropped Scott's hand and told them I needed to touch him one more time . One more touch to last for the rest of my life. And they told me absolutely, and to hold his hand and so I did. I kissed it and with that it was it. I remember breathing it in, knowing this was the last time I would EVER touch him. And it was.  We walked back to the private room where Jack had been , and there was no more beeping, and the room was empty of our boy and the sweet nurse Jenny had put together all of his things in a box. The bereavement coordinator hugged me and she may as well have lit me on fire because it was painful and suffocating... As we walked out, she asked me whether we were sure we didn't want an autopsy, as though she were asking if we wanted fries with that.

I remember feeling as though we were being smothered and how the fuck did this all happen? How did my happily ever crumple to the ground and how the fuck was I ever going to survive without Jack? Why would I even want to? I remember Scott repeating constantly that he was going to make this better, that he would fix it. And I remember knowing then as clearly as I do now there is no fixing this, no making it right.

I still don't know how I physically left the building. I know we didn't have the cash on hand to pay for the $80 in parking and my MIL handed us a wad of cash from her purse. I remember my parents wanted to follow us home and pack up baby things and I called them while watching them in our rear view mirror as we were driving and waved them off at Scott's request. We were exhausted both emotionally and physically and we just didn't want to talk about it at that time.

I remember we got home and fell asleep, Jack's clothing still scattered around our basement as I had left it when I went to the lactation clinic with my newborn baby for help just a few days before. It still smelled of him. There was a dirty diaper tightly wound up beside the change table and I remember opening it and seeing yellow baby poop. And I cried because we had celebrated each one of those poops in the days preceding his loss. And now I was grieving the poop which was never to come.
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