Empty
Some mornings, like today, I wake up and just lay here in a stunned kind of mental silence. I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe it’s all over. I lived with this person inside of me for 8 months and, just like that, he’s gone. I didn’t even cry, not this time. I’m still struggling to accept it.
I have spent so very long imagining a baby in a cosleeper in our bedroom… waiting to hold my child… waiting to breastfeed. Over and over in my head I say, “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t how it’s supposed to turn out.” How can my sweet little boy be dead? How could he be fine one week and gone the next? How could we never get a chance to meet him? Oh we held him, we got to see him – and I thank the light for that. But what about the rest? We will never get to hear him cry, to know what kind of baby he was, to find out what his personality was like. We will never get to look down at his precious face and see him smile. We don’t even know what color his eyes would have been.
I will be forever grateful that I got to experience pregnancy like I did. But how much I loved it accentuates how much I miss it now. I didn’t want pregnancy to end as it was – I thought I’d be sad even with a healthy child to love and raise. But I figured that child would make up for the loss of pregnancy, would make it all worthwhile. And now I have nothing, nothing to make up for the loss. My heart and my body aches for what is missing.
I do regret not holding him more in the hospital, and not having better pictures. We did the best we could at the time, so I can’t feel guilty. But I wish I had looked at him more. I find myself looking at his pictures just to remember what he looked like. The memory fades so fast, especially since we were in such a place of shock and sorrow. It feels like a horrible dream. But I want to remember. The one thing that sticks out in our minds is his little hand on my finger. I stroked his tiny little fingers. If you focussed on his hand you could imagine that he was just sleeping, gripping his mama’s finger. That image is burned into our brains – it’s the image that haunted us at night, that broke our hearts over and over again. Den said it was good in a way, and yet in some ways he wishes he could forget, he wishes he could close his eyes without that image in the way, reminding him.
::
A friend, Jess, called yesterday just to talk – and to listen. I mentioned the loss of direction and purpose I was feeling and she suggested channelling some of my energy into some sort of non-profit, advocacy, or peer-counseling program. I really like that idea… I know of a few organizations relating to either infertility or child loss that I feel I could be helpful to. It would be a way to remember Devin without being wholly focussed on the past… I like the idea of using everything I have learned, everything I have gained (and lost) to help others, to cause change in the world and pay it forward. It’s certainly something I will have to look into some more.
I just wanted to tell you that yall are still in my thoughts and prayers. I am so amazed at what a strong woman you are. I lost my son at 20 weeks due to renal agenesis and chose to have a d&c…to this day I wish I would have given birth to him so I could have the memories that you have of Devin. My heart truly and fully goes out to you and Den. Ive only been reading for a while, but I feel like I know you! God Bless
Amber
*HUG*
That’s a wonderful way to perpetuate the memory of your gorgeous son. I’m sorry that it had to happen this way (really, I am so unbelievably sorry).
You are so incredibly strong. Reading your posts takes my breath away.
You are so wonderful to want to give back and help others. I think it would be an awesome way to remember Devin.
Just know that I’m thinking about you.
For me all the things we won’t know is the hardest part. The eyes. The color his eyes would’ve turned out to be. Not knowing that is a symbol for me– of everything we don’t know. Of everything we won’t.
I asked my sister to take the picture of the little hand on my finger. That is the only picture I ever posted of A, on the one year anniversary of his birth day. I feel like I know the image in your minds, like I share it. I am sorry that is all we will ever see our sons’ hands do. I am sorry.
I also don’t know the color of my daughter’s eyes, and probably would never have as she was apparently blind. And please don’t beat yourself up too horribly — I also regret the poor photo quality and not holding my daughter enough, and I had a *week.* Sometimes, you’re just in the moment, and you need to be in front of the lens. And like you said, the grief and shock were just too much to consider that you’d never get to hold them again.
Good for you for thinking forward. But don’t be alarmed if that passes and you want to just shelve it for a year. Doesn’t make you a bad person, just makes you human.
I have never felt you kind of loss, so I don’t quite know what I might say that could give you a measure of comfort except blessings and peace to you, Den, and baby Devin.
I am so sad about all of this and am so upset for you. I have cried for you so much. I know that doesn’t help any but you are thought of often by me and my husband.
You should definitely reach out to your community, for others who have loved and lost. Getting out and helping others is very therapeutic and will help you to feel better, even if it is just a little bit at a time.
I have often wondered about Hannah’s eyes as well. I am pretty sure they would have been blue, but I always think about what shade of blue.
II would be interested in knowing how you reach out to the community. I can’t find much to do around me, and I feel like I need to focus my energy on doing something good.
*hugs you both*
this is such a heartbreaking post. I am in awe of you. ~luna