It has been 19 months since Max died, and I have obviously gotten to the point where I don't cry every day. I miss Max every day, and I think about him several times a day. A lot of times, though, I feel happy when I remember him. Quinn has been dealing with a little stomach bug that gave her some pretty raunchy smelling farts. I thought immediately of Max and how his tiny baby farts cleared the room in the hospital. Many of the nurses commented that they had never smelled such horrid gas from a baby. I thought of how sometimes, when we had company or when a new nurse was in our room, I would explain that the smell was coming from my sweet little baby and not from me. I remembered all of these things, and I smiled at the memories. It's not always like this though. I do still get sad. Incredibly sad. It's just probably less obvious to most people. I cringe to think that there are people out there who think that I have "moved on" or "gotten over it" because to me, these phrases are more appropriate for life's smaller disappointments. You move on or get over a break up, not your child dying. You might think about your ex from time to time, but certainly not every day. You might miss certain things about your ex years later, but you certainly don't yearn for him/her with every ounce of your being. No, there is no moving on or getting over your child dying. There is learning a new way of life, making a permanent spot for the grief in your heart, finding happiness in small things, taking comfort in memories, and emerging from the dark, all-encompassing shadow of grief that is inescapable for the first few months. But, there is no "getting over it." (I just have to share that while I was typing the last few sentences, my iPod was on shuffle, and "Walk" by Foo Fighters came on. Not only are the lyrics pretty damn applicable to what I was writing, but "Walk" is a song that I used to sing to Max while rocking him or dancing around in our kitchen. Very fitting. It took me a long time to be okay with hearing that song.)
My sadness comes on a little bit differently now. It's not as sudden, and it's not usually as suffocating as it once was. It's a hard to explain how I get there sometimes, so here is an example of my thought process last night leading up to my most recent "breakdown."
To set it up a little, here is how it started: I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, and my lower back was hurting a bit.
I felt a little pull in my back at Yoga last night...maybe that's why it hurts...I should go on more walks...it's cold, but I could bundle Quinn up...we have that jogging stroller that I bought off of Craigslist...it's really nice...that lady I bought it from was really nice too...I liked her...what if I ran into her somewhere?...she had a daughter Ethan's age...I wonder if I would recognize her...I wonder if she would recognize me...I was pregnant with Max, so maybe she wouldn't...what if she did, though...what if she asked about the baby?...I'd tell her that my baby died...
I don't imagine that I'm any different than any other mom who has lost a child in that something as simple as thinking about my back hurting leads me to thinking about my baby. Sometimes I can just move on from these thoughts, or I can at least replace them with happy memories of Max. Other times, I just can't. Last night was one of those times. I kept repeating in my head, "My baby died." It got louder and louder until it was a scream in my head. My heart speeds up, tears start to flow, and soon all I can think is, "My baby died." I wake up every day and know this, but sometimes it just stops me in my tracks. The reality and the weight of it hit me. It's like I'm being slowly filled with concrete until I am so heavy that I can't move, and I can't escape the thought of Max's precious little body and what remains of him sitting ten feet away from me on his table.
I had a similar episode on Christmas Eve, as I rocked Quinn to sleep in Max's old room (her room now). Her nightlight was on, so I could see into the closet. Hanging in a little corner are two onesies that I bought for Max. He never got big enough to wear them. They still hang there, tags on, because we weren't sure what to do with them when we packed up his room. Honestly, I had these grand ideas that I would be looking for an outfit for Quinn one day and stumble across these onesies and ultimately decide that they were just right, that it was okay for Quinn to wear one. That never happened. As I sat in the chair on Christmas Eve, I became fixated on those onesies. I could clearly remember rocking Max one day and looking at them then. I started saying in my head, "It's not fair." over and over again, until eventually, these words too became a fierce, angry scream in my head. I got a lot of tears out, and then I put Quinn in her crib and left the room. I felt okay for a while, but I couldn't get those words out of my head. I tried to watch a movie, but ended up just calling it a night. I got in bed, but I still couldn't escape those words and the thought that really, it just isn't fair. I said (okay, sobbed) to Scott that night, "We're missing out on so much." I couldn't help but picture a 19-month-old boy ripping through the wrapping paper and smiling with glee at the very sight of his new toy. I wanted so badly to be able to help him open each box, put each toy together, hunt down batteries, and show him how to work each new gadget.
Waves of sadness like this used to feel so overwhelming that I was absolutely convinced that I would never feel okay again. They don't feel like that anymore. I know that I will get through them, and so I don't try to stifle the sobs or rush through the emotions. I want to feel these things because sometimes they feel like the only way I have left to express my love for Max. Yes, they hurt, but I can't deny that behind all of the sadness is a love so intense that it finds ways to break through the surface when I don't always expect it to. There was a time when I worried that there would come a day when I would cry my last tear for Max. The thought of that happening honestly scared me. If I ceased to feel sad, would that mean that I really was "over it" and that I was wrong for saying there was no "getting over it" all that time? I also worried that there might come a day when thoughts of Max weren't flowing through my mind. These moments of sadness help me believe that no such day will ever exist, and as strange as it may sound, I'm glad for that. I guess I am still trying to come to terms with Max's swift exit from my life, but I don't ever want to have to come to terms with Max's exit from my memory and my heart.
