I. am. having. a. bad. day. Nothing really happened to make it bad other than that Max
died 73 days ago, which I just realized is his number of days on earth
inverted. Hmmmm. I’ve thought about him for all 73 days
since then, and I’ll think about him for many, many more, I’m sure. Today, I felt impatient, dull, and
really, really, really angry. I’ve
been thinking about the idea of karma.
I wonder if a true believer in karma could explain to me what the hell I
did. What in the world could I
possibly have done to make this come back around to me? Sure, I’ve done bad things. I haven’t always been the person that I
wanted to be. I haven’t always
been proud of myself. But still. I would say I have been a pretty good
person. Not as good as some, but
not nearly as bad others. Am I
having a pity party for myself?
Hell yeah I am. I do feel
sorry for myself. The truth is, I
think I should feel sorry for myself.
I would be sorry for anyone in my situation, and I am so sorry for other
parents who have lost children.
I’m just having one of those days when my pity party is a much bigger
event than normal. If it were a
real party, it would be the biggest, most extravagant party you’ve ever been
to. You would realize that you
didn’t even know what a party really was before attending my pity party. I want to scream and cuss and run and
kick and cry and throw glass vases against sidewalks. Don’t worry, I’m only really going to do maybe one or two of
them. I don’t feel like Max’s
death was a punishment for some real or imagined wrong on my part or anyone
else’s. I don’t think I deserved
it or caused it somehow. It’s not
any of those things. Plain and
simple, it’s that I’m just pissed that it happened. I’m so angry.
I
had a dream last night. Please
don’t judge me for it. I don’t
judge you for your weird dreams, and I know you have them. I dreamt that I kidnapped a baby. I feel that it is important to state
that I would never, ever, no matter the circumstances, even if they included
absolutely zero chance that I would ever get caught, kidnap another person’s
child. That would essentially be
causing someone else the same pain that I’m in, and I wish this on no one. No matter what you’ve ever done to me
or said about me or thought about me, I would never wish this one you. But in my dream, I was apparently a
different person. I didn’t feel
bad for kidnapping this baby. I
felt like I was owed that baby. I
am an English teacher, so of course I overanalyzed the crap out of this
dream. In reality though, I do
feel like I’m owed a baby. I’ve
been robbed of all the things that Max was supposed to do, and he has been
robbed of those things too. Ethan’s
been robbed, and Scott’s been robbed.
So we’re owed, and I would like to collect. For the record, I will go about collecting the good old-fashioned
way. I promise I will not kidnap a
baby.
I
just decided that this is going to be a ramble. I’m entitled to it.
I’m feeling very entitled tonight.
I don’t go into Max’s room very often. That’s something that I want to work on, but I am giving
myself time. I spent some time in
there a few weekends ago with Lori.
We listened to this stupid song that I can’t seem to escape. I don’t know what it’s called or who
sings it, but I know the first line is, “If I die young…” I don’t even care what comes after
that. That line is all that
matters. We sat around on the
floor because Max’s chair is a sacred thing. I was shocked to open the drawer to his changing table and
find all of his clothes still there.
I had no idea. I don’t know
where most of his stuff is, but I know it’s here somewhere. My sister packed it all up the day that
he died. I love her for that. And I really love her for leaving his
clothes in the drawer, whether she did it on purpose or as a sheer
oversight. I can’t describe that
moment. It was awful and
wonderful. It was so incredibly
painful and so incredibly touching.
I loved it and hated it. I
remember buying every single item that was in that drawer. Max was even with me when I bought some
of them. He sat in his car seat in
the cart, and I talked to him the whole time. He slept, but I didn’t care. I imagined that me talking to him helped him stay calm and
sleep well. Other shoppers checked
out the contents of my cart, including Max. Some complimented him, some smiled, and some just stared. It’s sad for me to think that other
people can’t see him like that now.
What a difference a day makes.
Like
I said, Max’s chair is kind of sacred.
I usually head straight to it when I venture into his room. It’s brown and soft and perfect. Aaron took a video of me holding Max
while sitting in it. It was taken
the day we brought him home from the hospital. Aaron titled it, “Woman in War-Torn Country Begging for
Potatoes.” It’s a happy
video. I am beaming and playing
the part of…you guessed it, a woman in a war-torn country begging for
potatoes. I don’t know why. Aaron and I make quite an odd
team. Max sleeps silently and
peacefully in my arms, a little too silently and peacefully for me now. It sits at the very top of my email
inbox. It’s the first thing I see
when I open my email at work.
Every time I watch it, I am engrossed by Max. I don’t even look at myself. I stare at Max, willing him to move or make a sound. He doesn’t. He just sleeps.
We have other videos, but for some reason that one really gets me.
The
chair is also sacred for me because it holds some of the tenderest memories
that Scott has of Max. Scott loved
that chair. He would rock Max in
it, sometimes for hours after Max was already asleep, just to spend more time
holding him. That’s the kind of
father Scott is. It’s a beautiful
thing to see. I remember standing
in the doorway on many occasions and just taking in that image. I’m glad I did that now. Scott would always smile at me, even if
Max was crying or fussy. He truly
understood what a miracle he was holding.
I know that Scott goes into Max’s room more than I do. I’ve put one of Max’s blankets in a
Ziploc baggie to preserve the smell, and there are other things that hold his
scent in that room as well. His
car seat, the sleeper that he wore when he took his last breath, and his
Boppies. I wish they made
Ziploc baggies big enough to hold those things too. One day, I went into Max’s room and made my way toward his
chair. A handful of coins were
scattered on the cushion. That
image stopped me in my tracks. It
was heartbreaking and heartwarming to see that Scott had left a little reminder
of his most recent visit. The
coins must have fallen from his pocket.
It reminded me of Hansel and Gretel, except that this time it was a
devastated daddy leaving a trail for his dead baby. I didn’t even bother moving them. I sat down and let the coins tumble where they may.
I
spent some time in Max’s room after my friend’s baby’s funeral on
Saturday. The service was
absolutely beautiful. We were
surrounded by love and compassion.
One of my students was there.
Strange. He is my friend’s
cousin. I struck up a conversation
with his mom, and she eventually got around to asking how I knew my friend, the
mother of the dead baby girl. I
told her about Max and about the little support group that us mothers have
formed. I was shocked to learn that
her sister’s daughter had given a baby up for adoption to a couple who lost a
son to SIDS also. Even weirder,
she was AT the funeral. We talked
for a long time. I can’t believe
how small the world truly is sometimes.
Anyway, when I returned home I headed straight for Max’s room. Scott joined me. We’ve rarely been in there
together. We hugged in Max’s room,
like we did many days and nights while he was still alive. This time, we weren’t hugging because
we felt so lucky or blessed, but the overflowing love for our precious baby boy
was still there, stronger than ever.
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