The candles are lit next to your urns.
Two years ago we met you, and we lost you. Some days, it seems like a lifetime ago, or a fuzzy dream. Others, I relive every detail. Every feeling. Every sound. Every tear.
But your birthdays are always the latter. I can't help but to recall that day with such focus. Knowing you were coming. Not expecting to meet you alive. Holding you in my arms. Saying goodbye. And leaving without you the next morning. Every so often, I even go back and read your birth story -- because I don't want those details to ever fade from me.
At the same time, just like last year, we didn't want to sit home and drown in grief. We need this day to have purpose. So I arranged to, once again, deliver books to the maternity ward at IU Methodist in your memory. Last year, we took just 6 books, all from me and your dad. This year, several people joined our efforts and donated, allowing us to take 20 books.
And I'd give anything for that.
When we arrived today, I only had one thing I needed to do at the hospital. Since your little brother is experiencing this trip for the first time, I decided to take his copy of Goodnight Moon with us. As I explained to your dad, "I want to read it to him there... so it can feel like I'm reading to all my children." I didn't even care where it was. I just knew I had to do it somewhere in the hospital.
Immediately upon arrival, we were met by three women who graciously accepted the books, and talked about loss and grief with us. We shared a bit more of your story -- and our story. And proudly gave them the books to hand out to whomever they felt would benefit or enjoy them.
That gesture -- that gift -- was my comfort. Perhaps my only comfort. Knowing that up to 20 other children will have those moments of bonding and quiet with their parents that you were robbed of -- and that they'll have that, in part, because of how much we love you and how much you meant to the world.
During our meeting, I mentioned how much it meant to us last year when were able to visit the labor and delivery area where you were born. Immediately they responded, "We can absolutely do that again." They even asked if I knew the room number where I delivered.
I did. "LDR16"
"I think that one is available."
My heart felt heavy, but I wanted to go in that room more than anything. So we did.
And there was no place more fitting to read Goodnight Moon. I sat on the very couch where your dad had slept (until he crawled in next to me in the hospital bed to comfort me) that night. Not three feet from where you entered, and exited, this world.. I held your baby brother and read. Each page bringing me closer to tears.
Paxton closed the book as I gave him a big kiss. That kiss was for all of you.
And as your dad sat down beside me, reminiscing about that day, I looked around that room -- and every moment came flooding back. I gave myself a minute to cry. But soon, your brother was looking up at me and smiling, making sure I didn't lose myself in grief. But as we left that room, I still felt like I was leaving without you. Like some part of me will always feel like we should be taking you home.
All in all, it was a good day for us. It feels empty to say "Happy Birthday." Yes, it was the day you were born. But it was also the day you left. And the day you made me a mother, and your dad a father... And the day my heart was shattered, but grew tenfold, all at once.
So, I'll just say, I hope we made you proud. Gave our love for you justice. This day was just for the two of you.
We miss you.
Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises, everywhere.
Goodnight Jasper. Goodnight Bodhi.
- Your mother
And if by chance, one of the parents that received a book has found their way here to read this.. be my substitute. My voice. Hold your child and read with them. It helps to make up for the all the chances I've missed. And without ever meeting you, you are helping to heal me, and giving purpose to the lives of my children <3
No comments:
Post a Comment