My Journal of Heartache...and Hope

Our son Max was born on May 4, 2011. Life was busy, happy, and perfect for 37 days. Then, it wasn't.
A look back at our life before Max, with Max, and what comes after...

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

July 23, 2011--The Memory Table


My mom shared an idea for a “memory” table with me a few days ago, and I loved it.  All of Max’s pictures, toys, and Max himself (his ashes) have been sitting in our dining room exactly where the workers from McGilley’s left them after the funeral.  I just didn’t have the energy to look through them.  Putting that stuff “away” also makes it seem more final.  Final is not the word I’m looking for, but it’ll do.  I just felt like putting those things away somewhere meant that we were forgetting about him or trying to put the memory of Max away with his things.  So, I just let them sit there.  I saw them every time I walked in the front door or looked into the dining room from the kitchen.  It also forced every person who entered our front door to see Max and his belongings.  I don’t know how people felt about that, but I hope no one was offended.  My mom’s idea was to buy some sort of credenza or sofa table that Scott and I could put in our bedroom.  We would put Max’s pictures, ashes, and whatever else we wanted on the table.  We would see it every morning when we woke up and every night before we went to bed.  I loved the idea, so I went in search of a table.  I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew it had to be cool enough for my little man.  I actually bought the first table that I saw.  It was perfect.  It has shelves on the side where we can display pictures, and it has drawers and cabinets in the middle for some of the things that we want to keep private.  I paid for the table with a smile on my face, and I felt satisfied.  The hard part came later, of course.

Scott and I worked on the table last night.  It was hard.  We unpacked each of Max’s belongings with extreme care and very heavy hearts.  Unwrapping each picture was like unearthing some sort of treasure.  His big, curious eyes looked into mine.  In some of the pictures there were others eyes looking at me too.  Nicole’s, my mom’s, my grandma’s, Ethan’s, Scott’s, even mine.  Our eyes were filled with joy and sometimes happy tears.  Our eyes were filled with naivety and innocence.  We had our little bundle of joy, and everything was all right.  Life was good.  We were happy.  It was hard seeing that.  I’ve come to think of my life as being divided into two separate sections:  “before” and “after.”  It’s like B.C. and A.D. except that it has nothing to do with Jesus and everything to do with Max.  I guess he kind of was my Jesus, but I’ll leave religion out of it.  I’m still not sure where my faith stands anyway.  These pictures were all from my “before” life—my life that had been largely untouched by tragedy.  My life that didn’t know the type of pain and loneliness that is left when your child is gone.  These pictures represent all of our lives “before.”  Happy, innocent, unsuspecting, untainted.  It was hard seeing them because it makes me realize that I’ll never have my “before” life again.  A lot of people that I love won’t have a “before” life again either.  Instead of thinking about which new toys Max would be growing into for Christmas (I know it’s only July, but I love buying Christmas presents for kids!), I’m looking into what types of gifts we can buy to honor his memory.  I’m showing our parents websites for DNA portraits (these are really cool, but still) instead of ones for toys appropriate for a 7-month-old baby boy.  And it sucks. 

Back to the table…I love it.  I love every picture on it, every toy on it, and every piece of Max that is on it.  I just hate that we have a shrine to our dead son instead of a “wall of pride” for him.  Scott and I experimented with placement of pictures and toys until we got it just right.  I am proud of it.  I will probably try to show many people who aren’t really very interested in looking at pictures of a baby who isn’t alive and growing anymore, but I hope they’ll just smile and tell me that it’s perfect.  Hint, hint.  Scott actually opened the evidence bags that I picked up last week.  Those also ended up on the dining room table, which I should really start calling Max’s table instead.  At first, I didn’t want to see what was inside.  I watched him open the bag holding Max’s last bottle, which is now covered in dark mold.  I didn’t like seeing that.  Scott said, “I guess we’ll throw this away?”  My first instinct was to say no, but what are we going to do with a moldy bottle?  And if I didn’t like seeing it now, 6 weeks later, then why would I want to see it 6 months from now when even more mold would have grown on it?  So, I guess it’s in the trash.  I decided I didn’t care to watch the next bag of evidence being opened.  It contained Max’s pacifier and a small burp cloth.  I just knew it would destroy me.  Scott opened it while I turned the other way, and then he quietly placed the items in the table drawer.  I went about my business, but I kept thinking about that pacifier.  I finally opened the drawer, and I surprised myself.  It didn’t destroy me.  It didn’t make me happy, but it didn’t destroy me.  I decided that the pacifier needed to be with Max, so I wrapped it up with Max’s ashes and put them back in his box.  I’m glad that I did that.

I added a few of the trinkets that we’ve received from people, and then the table was complete.  It’s going to be hard to see this table every day and feel good about it, but it’s not like my “after” life is going to be easy anyways, right?  Seeing Max’s face makes me smile sometimes; other times it makes me cry.  But every single time I see his face, it makes me remember how truly precious life is.  It makes me long to hold Max and protect him from all of the nasty things that parents worry about, but it also makes me want to live my life better than before.  Max makes me want to treat people with love, kindness, and compassion.  He makes me want to “pull a Max,” as Duke put it at Max’s funeral.  I have heard a few times that babies like Max come here to teach, not to learn.  I don’t know how I feel about the last part yet, but I know that the first part is true.  Max did teach us.  And I don’t think that his lessons ended with his death.  I think Max is going to be teaching us until we die too.  I guess that’s something that I can learn to be grateful for, but I would still go back to being my old, uneducated self if it meant that Max would still be here with me.

No comments:

Post a Comment