Thoughts of Max flood my brain lately. Not that I don’t think about him all
the time anyway, but lately he’s all I can think of when I wake up in the
morning and when I go to bed at night.
There are so many more things that I start to remember as we approach
the day that should be bringing us so much joy: his first birthday.
I remember the look on his face when that first bit of water hit his
little body in the bathtub; it was a look of confusion, but not annoyed
confusion. Just confusion. As if he was thinking, “How the hell
did I end up in here?” It was
adorable and made me smile a little every time I saw it. I got used to seeing that face, and I
have no doubt that the look would have evolved as he grew into a toddler and
then a young man. I pictured him
giving me that look when trying new foods, experimenting with words, or seeing
something strange out in the real world.
I wish I had a picture of that look or even a video to capture the body
movements that went along with it—flailing arms, fingers spread wide. The snapshot in my mind will have to
do, though. I still can’t bring
myself to watch any of the very few videos we have of Max. Something about seeing him alive in my
head versus alive on the screen is more comforting for now. I hope that I will be able to watch
them at some point, and I believe that I will. It’s not something I’m rushing into, but I wouldn’t mind if
it happened tomorrow. I miss my
little guy.
Since my last post, Scott and I finished packing up Max’s
room. We turned it into Quinn’s
room, but I still can’t help but call it “Max’s room.” Sometimes I call it “Max’s old room,”
but even that sounds strange to me.
I don’t see this as being totally unhealthy. Ethan’s room will always be “Ethan’s room,” even after he
moves out and it’s turned into a guest room or whatever type of room it’s
destined to become. I’ll always
think of it as his room because he was the first inhabitant. We painted it for him, we decorated it
for him, and he’ll live there for a lot of his life. We say goodnight to him in that room every night, we play
with him in that room, and we measure his amazing growth in that room. Calling it anything other than “Ethan’s
room” takes all of the significance of those things away from the room and
turns it into any other room in our house. I feel the same way about Max’s room. A lot of things happened in that room,
and Scott and I smiled and laughed more times than we can possibly remember in
that room. We sat in the chair in
Max’s room for hours of his life, rocking him, feeding him, singing to him, just
being with him. So, I don’t think it’s such a big deal
that I still think of it as Max’s room and probably always will. He will always be a part of our family,
so he deserves a place in our house.
Just like that confused look would have evolved with Max, his room is
evolving too. Its origins will
remain the same though, and I choose to acknowledge those origins.
It is very strange to think that on this day last year, I
was five days away from giving birth to Max. I can’t believe that he would have been a year old in just a
few days. My labor with Max was
painful, of course, but it wasn’t unnecessarily long or nearly as trying as
Ethan’s. I didn’t take any medicine
for pain until I got my epidural.
This was very different from my experience with having Ethan. I was pumped full of various
painkillers, which did lead to some funny commentary by me. (So I have been told; I really don’t
remember.) I barely remember
having Ethan. I had been in “false
labor” for nearly three days by the time Ethan came for real. I was having full-blown contractions
just minutes apart, but labor wasn’t actually progressing. On the third day, I was finally
admitted to the hospital. I had
barely eaten, I couldn’t sleep through the pain, and I was exhausted. And I hadn’t even started labor
yet! When relief was offered in
the form of an IV drip, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. My epidural came several hours later, and I finally slept
for a few hours before Ethan was born.
I couldn’t feel a thing when he was born. Max’s delivery was a much different experience for me. I didn’t take an IV drip of
anything. I still had an epidural,
but the effects were very different.
My legs didn’t go numb, and I still had feeling everywhere. I could actually still walk, which was
completely impossible when I was in labor with Ethan. I was not too happy at the time about being able to feel
everything, and it definitely made the birthing part more difficult, but any
ill feelings I had about the epidural went away when the nurses placed Max on
my chest. I began to see that it
was a good thing to have felt every
bit of his delivery. I wasn’t in a
drug-induced haze when he was born; every bit of me was conscious and focused
on that baby boy who needed so much attention from me now. I was ready and anxious to give him
every ounce of love and attention that he needed. We kept Max in our room for the remainder of our hospital
stay; neither of us looked forward to when the nurses would take him for
check-ups or bathing. We truly
soaked up every minute of his existence.
Unfortunately, there were far too few minutes in Max’s life to soak
up. That realization hits me like
some supernatural force sometimes.
Sure, I can always take comfort in knowing that I really took advantage
of my time with Max, but what do I do with the knowledge that his life was cut
far too short, that the entire world was robbed of Max McFall?
I know Max’s birthday will be hard for us. April 4th was hard for
me. I felt like life was moving
along so slowly and that we had all of this time to prepare for Max’s first
birthday, and then boom! April 4th
was here, and we only had one month to go. I had to leave work that day. I just couldn’t hold it together. My friends at work banded together and afforded me the
opportunity to go home and “let it all out” in a more appropriate
environment. I know I’ve said it
before, but I am so grateful to be surrounded by such thoughtful, selfless,
caring people every day. I will
miss that next year. For Max’s
birthday, we’re going with an idea that my mom had a long time ago. She listened patiently to my pipe
dreams for Max’s birthday, and then suggested a perfect idea: plant a memorial garden for him. So that’s what we’re doing. It’s not a food garden; it’s just a
memorial garden. I don’t know how
to define it in any other way so that its full meaning will be captured. Essentially, we are landscaping, but
that sounds too boring and everyday for what we have planned. All of our friends and family are
invited, and most are bringing some sort of perennial plant that will go in the
garden. Our hope is that the
plants will bloom every year around Max’s birthday and that we will be able to
look out on his garden and be reminded of Max’s life—of the beauty of it, not
the one ugly part. The blooming of
Max’s garden will represent a lot of things for us: his beauty and perfection, the love that always surrounds
us, the impact of his life on others, and the constancy of his presence in our
lives. I know, maybe it’s a little
to English teacher-ish, but I can’t help it. I really mean all of these things. It’s impossible to explain the power that a simple blooming
flower, a fluttering butterfly, or a perfectly placed Cardinal has on a grieving mother. These things will never again go
unnoticed or unappreciated by me.
So, on Max’s birthday, we envision being surrounded by all of the people
who surrounded us will love and support last year, and who continue to do
so. In a sense, the garden will
represent all of their combined efforts to leave something beautiful in the
wake of such ugliness and horror.
While May 4th is a day that I am dreading in a sense, it is
also a day that holds a lot of hope for me. I have to keep in mind that May 4th was a day of
immense happiness for me. It was
the culmination of months of anticipation and planning. That day held the promise of new life
and new happiness, and even if those promises were broken, I have to be
thankful for ever having had them.
On a (not unimportant) side note, I want to say that while
my posts may not always show it, I am
healing. My friends and family
help with that, Quinn helps with that, even Max’s memory helps with that. Most of all, the people who surround me
every day and who aren’t afraid to say Max’s name help me with that. I cannot tell you how relieving it is
to hear someone else say his name sometimes. I know many people imagine that it hits my heart with a pang
or takes me to a terrible place, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. When I hear Max’s name, it warms my
heart. I see his beautiful face
and remember his smell and his smile and his goofy laugh. If I have to live in a world without
Max, at least I can live in a world full of my memories of him. I am so thankful that the people around
me let the world be a reality and that I don’t have to create it my own
mind!
Max’s death has, of course, left me with a great sadness
that I know will never go away. It
makes it hard to fully enjoy things sometimes, but that doesn’t mean that I
don’t enjoy them or feel happiness every day. I have a feeling that the rest of my life will be a process
in learning how to deal with new situations after having lost a child. I am about to get all English-teachery
again. so bear with me. I take the
same route to get home from Ethan’s school every day: Antioch to 69-South.
Last week, the ramp to 69-South was suddenly and without warning (to me,
at least) closed. This made me a
bit frantic because there are not many options for detours. I could either get on a totally
different highway, or I could go the wrong way on 69. I chose to get on 69-North, take the first exit, and then
get immediately back on to 69-South.
This detour might not be the most effective, it takes extra time, and
it’s full of curves and merging and stoplights, but it gets me to where I need
to be. I felt panicked when I
realized that my exit was closed, and I had to make decisions that I wasn’t
prepared to make. I don’t like
this detour, but it’s necessary.
In the end, it might take a little longer, but it still gets me
home. I know this story seems
pointless, but I promise that it has a point. In many ways, I feel like this story is a metaphor for my
life. I was happily headed one
direction, and then all my plans were nixed with a roadblock. I had to make a lot of tough decisions,
and it was not pleasant. I had to
take a detour that I hated. It was
full of obstacles and ups and downs and just plain unpleasantness. Through all of this, though, I’m still
headed down the road that will lead me home. I don’t quite know what “home” represents
yet—happiness? fulfillment? healing?—but I know that I’m headed
that direction.
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