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.

Pieces

I have to begin by saying I'm sorry. I'm sorry I haven't written. I doubt anyone notices how long it's been but its been awhile.

I've had a lot on my mind just haven't had the time to write. Then again I've had nothing to say because I've been at a loss for words. I just don't know where my grief or emotions stand right now.

What has sparked me to write is my AMAZING 4 year old. Last night she said words to me that no 4 year old should ever say.
Here is how our conversation went:

M: are you happy you have a live baby?
Me: yes honey I'm am.
M: Sam is up in heaven and when you get there he will be there waiting for you.
Me: yes, he will be.
M: -and nonni and poppy will put you in your box.
Me: I hope nonni and poppy are gone long before me.
M: then who will put you in your box?
Me: (this took me a minute to figure out how to answer, but I figured since we've always been honest and up front with her...) hopefully you will.
M: okay I will do that!
Me: (tears begin to form and I'm loosing my stomach at the thought of our conversation not because of the content but because its with my four year old)
M: mom, I'm going to miss you when you die.
Me: I'm going to miss you too, but that's not going to be for a very long time. Can we talk about something else? Lets not talk about me dying anymore.
M: ok. I love you mom.
Me: I love you too

With my four year old! Well beyond her years. Sam has given her so much emotion that I think a normal preschooler would never be able to handle.
And what for?
Is she going to be something great?
Or will she too die too soon?
God I hate to think of that! But that's me always analyzing.

Since then, or maybe it was before that, I'm trying to pick up the pieces. I feel shattered again. Barely able to breathe.

It's been 18+months since Sam died and people are starting to forget. Or at least it feels like it. I have a wonder family that always say his name and acknowledges his presence but others are forgetting.
Not forgetting him but forgetting I may still be broken. I will never be whole. Sam is the piece that competes me. Since V was born people have been blinded by excitement of a new baby and filled with joy. It gave them something to talk about with me.

"How are your girls doing?"

Before people would ignore me and I knew that they remembered my story. They recognize that I may still be fragile.

Remnants of him...

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I'm surrounded by babies lately. Babies being born left and right. I politely converse about their pregnancy and act excited for them.
I feel like people feel like they owe me the sympathy and say something like this towards the end of the conversation, "yea it's getting close. I just want him/her to be healthy."

Really, dumb fuck! Is that your little way to acknowledge my loss in your ignorance?
Sam was healthy. Nothing came back abnormal in his autopsy report.

HEALTHY BABIES DIE TOO!

Ugh, when will society get there head out of there ass! Nothing's impossible.

Do me a favor just acknowledge my brittle heart, mention his name and pray your baby is born alive.
Sam

It's Christmas Day

It's Christmas Day and I feel almos foolish to think I actually thought year number 2 without Sam would be a smidgen easier than the first.
Shit! I'm wrong!
This sucks. We stop at the oasis for Starbucks and my eyes begin to flow at the sight of a father and son hand in hand.

I allow my head to be filled with the guilt that struck me so early on.
I'm sorry for not giving my husband a son, my daughter a brother, completing my family.
I know it's not my fault. But this Christmas season has brought out that mother instinct, the one to protect the young at any cost.
I just want my son back. Even if its for a split second.

I imagine him riding around in this truck that we would have bought him this year for Christmas.

I can hear him babbling some gibberish that only daddy and I can understand.

I imagined him opening his gifts this morning and either being a terror to his big sister or the most sweetest little boy to his mommy.

But I'm not having any of that. Their only dreams that will never come true.

We will never have a complete family. We will never have a complete holiday.

Merry Christmas baby boy, mommy loves you.