Onward Through the Fog

It’s the question I hear the most and have the hardest time answering.  “How are you?”  My baby died.  He was about to be born, and he died.  And we don’t know why.  At times I can think, “Okay, this is part of us now, part of our story.  It is who we are.  It is something Wes & I share that no one else can understand.”  But other times, the grief sneaks up on me when I’m least expecting it.  When I’m putting the kids in the car, when I can’t find clothes that fit, when I wake up thinking about him and just can’t stop, when I see people looking at me and wonder what they’re thinking.  At some of those times there’s a lump in my throat.  At others it hits like a train.  It’s like something is digging into my chest.  It has surprised me how circular grief is.  One minute I might feel like things are getting better, but then when it comes it’s like starting all over again.  How can emotional pain be so physically palpable?  My arms ache to hold him.  I think about all the times I complained about getting up with babies in the middle of the night.  I would wake up every night for the rest of my life if it meant Cullen was alive. 

It’s hard not to ask “what if?”  What if I had changed my appointment to that Monday as I had considered doing?  What if I had said yes when the doctor asked if I wanted to be induced?  What if Tuesday hadn’t been such a busy day?  Maybe he would be alive.  Or maybe he wouldn’t. 

Austin talks about him, and I love that.  He talks about missing him and wishing he were here, but he also sometimes talks about him as if he weren’t gone: “Cullen doesn’t know how to play with little Legos” or “I think Cullen would like this.”  The matter-of-fact-ness of an almost 5 year old is refreshing.  He doesn’t worry about what to say or if he’s saying the right thing.  He has a question, and he asks it.  When is Cullen’s birthday?  Where’s heaven?  Are there Legos in heaven?  He tells people we meet, “our baby died.”  I wish I could do that sometimes, but that’s kind of conversation-stopper.   And I don’t really want to be known as that weird lady that lost her baby. 

Our kids are a huge help in keeping us going.  We don’t have the option of shutting down or staying in bed all day.  They bring joy and laughter.  Their hugs and snuggles are better than any medicine or comfort.  And I appreciate them more.  The smiles, the “I love you’s.” Even the annoying noises and bickering are somehow not as bad when you realize the alternative is not having any of it. 

We know we will be okay.  We know a day will come that we can see more clearly and breathe without the weight of our loss feeling quite so heavy. And so we will move onward through the fog.