Five. Five.. Five.
I say it over and over, because it doesn't seem real.
I would be worrying about your first day of kindergarten coming.
Everything would be different... had you survived.
And I think about that life a lot. A stampede of "I wonder" running at me at full speed.
I wonder if you two would be best buddies. I wonder what your favorite movie, stuffed animal, and flavor of lollipop would be. I wonder if you'd sleep alone through the night, or sneak into bed with me.. or maybe with each other. I wonder if you'd be shy, or dance to your heart's content even in a room full of strangers.
It haunts me that I'll never know.
All I'll ever have is that hour. I have to make it enough.
So, we celebrate you. We celebrate your life.
And just like all the years before, we went back to where you were born. Heavy with grief, but light with love -- a near permanent way of being for me.
Unfortunately, we didn't get to visit your exact birthplace today. They tried.
Our liaison had approached the nurses station as we waited in the hall, wagon full of books. And I could hear the whispering. I heard the audible "awww" and read the sad look on the nurse's face when she looked up at us.
I know that look well.
There is no other reaction to a story like ours.
But LDR16 was occupied today, and that's okay. We visited an adjacent room, and later stood inches from the door to take a picture. And while it is powerful to go into LDR16, you are more than just a room. I can both grieve and celebrate you from anywhere.
I am your mother... everywhere.
Then we read Goodnight Moon with your brothers down in the lobby (where they had to stay due to flu restrictions). I revel in this tradition the most -- when I can imagine you sitting on my lap, or on the floor gazing up at me, waiting for the next page of the story.
But it is hard, every single time, to close that book and leave the hospital again. Because I remember that feeling 5 years ago. Leaving you behind. My legs on autopilot, with pieces of me falling away with every step.
I recall that morning clearly, walking through that lobby, passing strangers that would glance at me. Did they think I was rude for not smiling at them? Did they think I was visiting a grandparent or uncle? Did they really notice me at all?
I know for certain that none of them knew I had just said goodbye to my babies. That I had given birth to twins, but was going home without any children.
It was when I first felt the absolute loneliness of this kind of grief.
And now, when I walk through hospital lobbies, I watch for faces like mine. The ones walking -- heart no longer in their chest.
I watch for the lonely.
I wish I could just tell them, "I know."
In my very first post about you, and leaving the hospital that day, I remarked about how it felt like there should be two car seats in the back.. but it was empty.
Today, it was full.
For that, I am grateful.
They will know you. They will be your brothers... everywhere.
So again, on this day, I must thank you for making me a mother. To you, and to them. The journey you took me on, and that sorrow, has enlarged my soul. The pain is the price I pay for loving you -- and it is worth it.
You are worth it.
And every year, your lives touch more and more people. They learn your story, or take home a book because of you. You matter... everywhere.
Happy birthday, my babies. Jasper and Bodhi, you are loved.
-- Your mom and dad
