Padded Envelope

Who would have ever thought that a padded envelope would be a trigger. I haven't had one in a while, a trigger that is. At least not one that has sent me to the place I visited last night.

I needed a damn padded envelope to send back my K-cup for the Kruerig that was replaced under warranty last week. Last night I had one of those, "Wait! I think I have one here and I don't have to buy one." moments. Well in my search for the fucking thing I pulled open the file cabinet that now resides in my son's room.

I felt a bit of hesitation as I dared to open the cabinet. Not because of a potential trigger but because I knew I would come across memories that would be hard to resist. Memories of M and her baby days.

There it was staring at me. A file folder marked Sam.

Do I dare?
Now I clearly knew the damn envelope wasn't going to be in there. Why the hell would there be a padded envelope in his file?

I thought about it for a split second then wrestled the idea of "Do I?" "Leave it?"

No. I want to feel close to him. I need to feel close to him. 
Time has a funny way of robbing you of this sense of closeness. The more time passes the farther I feel from him.

I did it. I opened his file. There staring back at me was a stack of papers that explained his life. These were papers that I had faxed to the maternal and fetal medicine doctor that I saw just after Sam died.

I began reading his autopsy report, the only proof of life that I have. These papers are gold to me. They prove to me that Sam is a real baby and he exists. I've read this before not long after he died for the same reasons I read them last night.

To feel close to him.

As I read it, there alone in his room, the tears began to flow, I mean really flow. I cried out in anger at the God that stole my son, "I should be holding him in his room, not reading his fucking autopsy report."

This reading did something different this time. Besides filling me with closeness it filled me with anger. If any of you have ever read an autopsy report you would know what I'm talking about. The verbiage used to describe my son felt cold and disconnected. Although reading it gave me validation and comfort.

When I started reading it I was noticing that his blood type was nowhere to be found! Mine was but not Sam's. this bothers me. Again, this is another way to validate his life since he was never given a birth certificate.

I continued to read, trying to see through the tears. The pain ripped through me like a tornado. I had to keep reading, I just have to know his blood type.

At this point my I can barely see through my tears and my husband walks in. Then M. She asks what's wrong and my husband tells her, "we miss Sam." Of course she comes back with Kleenex for my tears.

Again filled with the should have and left with empty arms and a gaping hole in my heart.

Mommy loves you, baby boy, mommy loves you.

Groundhog Day

That's right my post is going to be about Groundhog Day. How does that have anything to do with grief? I'll tell you...

A poetic viewing of the movie Groundhog Day on Saturday sparked a question in my husband. He says to me, "If you had to do/live one day over and over again, which would it be?"

With out hesitation I answer, "as much as it would hurt...giving birth to Sam. Even though the pain would be so great, I'd get to hold him everyday."

I miss him. I yearn to hold him and feel him again.

Days have been rough lately. Just feeling very exhausted in my faith and its slipping quickly. Am I really going to see him again? How do I trust God again?

I want a Groundhog Day.

Mommy loves you.