My life has become a void. An endless succession of hollow days, going through the motions, accomplishing nothing for months on end. I stare at an rectangular electronic device from the moment I wake to the moment I close my eyes, lulling my mind into a stupor to mask the emptiness and pain. Hours, days, months…it’s all the same. I think the seasons have changed. I feel like a building that’s been condemned, dark, empty of life, pathetic. The only true proof I have of the passing of time is my ever-growing belly. Pregnancy is supposed to be a time of happiness and excitement, two people feeling the movements of their unseen child, discussing who he might become with eyes full of joy. Sometimes I’m successful at being excited and happy, but he seems disinterested. I long to hold my child in my arms again more than anything in the world, even though this child will never replace the one I’ve lost. I’m trying my best to prepare for his arrival, in both the traditional way and mentally. Will I love him like I did Daxon? Will he share my eyes, or will they be blue like Dax’s, or maybe both blue and green like his father’s? Will he sometimes make the same expressions as Dax, sending a thousand needles through my heart? Will he live? This…this is what plagues my mind. I am where babies go to die, it seems. I want him so badly. I need him to survive. But I feel like a deep, dark part of me knows that he won’t, and then I won’t either. I can’t have three babies in Heaven before me. I can’t. When will this day ever end?
Grief has so many unexpected turns, so many unwelcome surprises that seem to grow right out of the aching hole in your chest. One of the worst ones I’ve found since losing my son was the loss of my identity. I didn’t even realize that that was what had happened until another mother mentioned it in a group session. When I became a mother, my old life became a dark, dirty memory and the whole world opened up to me. I experienced a love I had no idea was even possible. Sometimes, I felt so much love for that tiny little person, I felt nearly frantic not knowing how to handle it all. It overwhelmed me in the best possible ways. Everything about the way I lived my life changed and I became Daxon’s Mom. If pre-mom me was reading this right now, she would probably be rolling her eyes, but I understand it now. I understand how having a baby doesn’t just mean “having a baby”. I understand that it means becoming someone entirely new and better and feeling truly unconditional love like no other.
I have been feeling lost ever since he left. At first, I had no idea what to do with my days. Even still, I look at the bare living room floor, wishing to God that it were covered in toys again with a curious little boy banging them around, coming to me for snacks and snuggles. I have been filling my days with sleeping in, watching crappy tv, and mindlessly playing with my iPad. I do almost nothing productive. I have a few projects on the go, but I can’t seem to focus enough to really finish much of anything. It took me a month to unpack from our vacation because looking at my suitcase made me feel overwhelmed and anxious, like I had no idea where to even start and it was just too much to handle. I can’t even enjoy sex anymore, even though I’m pregnant and hormonal. I feel so guilty that I sometimes make myself do it anyway, but he can always tell my head and heart aren’t in it. And then I feel even more guilty so I try harder still to convince him I’m fine and he can keep going. I died with my son. All the happy, loving parts of me died with him and I am left here to be lost and destroyed. Nothing could have prepared me for this emptiness. Never in my life could I have ever imagined feeling so utterly and completely…..lost. But I’ve survived yet another empty day. I am one day closer to holding my baby boy safely in my arms again.
Each time I pass Daxon’s bedroom door, I look at it and say something to me either in my head or out loud, depending on whether my boyfriend is nearby. I know he’s not in there, but I think it’s more of s reminder to talk to him and tell him that I love him. I don’t go in often, but about once a week I feel like I need to be closer to him so I go in and sit and cry, usually on the floor beside his crib or sometimes in the rocking chair. I’ll look through his favourite book once in awhile, Little Bear is Hungry, and run my fingers over the fuzzy parts like he used to do. I’ll turn on the sound machine that casts a projection wheel on the wall of different things. The one we used the most was the fishy one, so that is still in there. A couple of times, I’ve turned on the toy I hung in his crib just days before his last. It has a screen with a waterfall in the background that lights up, a monkey that swings, a frog, and something else near the bottom. When I first put it in there, I put him in his crib and turned it on and he was so happy. He got up on hands and knees, making those cute little noises of joy while looking from me to the toy like, “Mommy, are you seeing this?! This is amazing!”
This afternoon, I started having a meltdown on the couch. It wasn’t even anything that really triggered it either. I went upstairs and into his room, opening the door quietly like I always have, and bawled my eyes out like one of those wailing foreign women you see in movies who have just lost their husbands in a terrible battle. Then, I started looking through things. I looked through books and drawers, when I found his Love You Forever book, I broke down again. That was the first book I ever read to him while I was pregnant and then many times after. He loved that book, probably because it had a little song I’d sing in it. He loved music. I went through his closet and folded and put away some clothes my boyfriend had washed but not properly put away. He has this little chubby fox costume my mom got him to wear for Halloween. That was one of the last days he was alive. I has a big fat bum on it with a tail and the hood is a fox head, complet and with little snout. I held that costume to me and cried yet again, not entirely surprised to notice that my arms went around it in the exact same way I used to hold my son.
Afterward, I picked up a few things that were lying around, toys went in his toy bag, baby monitors that boyfriend had tossed behind the rocking chair went into th closet, funeral home bag went in the closet… Then I sat in the chair looking through his baby book, you know, the kind where you fill in all the pages about his firsts and family tree and everything. I never realized how big of a leap he went through at six and a half months. That’s when he first said, “Mum,” the first time he stood by himself for a couple seconds. And I remember these times, too.
Tonight, as I was walking up the stairs for bed, I looked at his door as always and I felt something different. It was almost a peace, I think. Not quite happiness, but it wasn’t just sadness and longing. It caught me off guard and really confused me. I know it won’t last and there will always be hard days and less hard days, but I think this was somehow a step in my healing, though I’m not entirely sure how. I don’t want to spaeculate either, and ruin it so I’m just going to accept it as that and enjoy the moment a bit longer. I still miss my little boy terribly and want nothing more than to be holding him right now, but I feel like maybe this is God’s way of telling me that he heard me yelling at him today and that everything is okay, we will be together again.
One day in paradise.