Blue Pajamas

Originally Posted September 10, 2023

I got stuck in the little boys pajama section at the store today.  My eyes landed on some soft blue pajamas with game controllers on them, and before my heart could catch up, I reached for them thinking I would get matching pairs for both my boys.  Eli loved matching his sleepwear with yours.  And then reality slammed into me, and I stood there for who knows how long just touching the soft fabric of those little size 5 jammies and fighting the irrational urge to buy them anyway.  I'll never be able to buy anything for you again.  

This, I'm learning, is what grieving you is going to feel like for a long time.  I can be doing fine, and out of nowhere the pain of your absence hits so hard that my brain can only numb to escape the intensity.  So I often find myself frozen, feeling everything and nothing all at once.  It feels like I held you yesterday and at the same time you can feel so far away I'm unsure if you ever really existed.  I cope by avoiding things that remind me of you.  I race past the baby/toddler section, where I would grab diapers, wipes, new sensory toys to try and your specific preferred baby foods each week.  I left all the special needs mom and adoption groups.  I mostly keep the door to your room closed, sometimes pausing but rarely going in to sit or think.  The last time I did the tears wouldn't stop, and the world doesn't have time for my tears.  So I don't go to the city park, and I don't drive past your school, and I avoid the route I drove multiple times each week for your therapies.  The only way to go is forward.  And right now, the memories are just too painful.  

I paused a few weeks ago at the gate leading out to your resting place, after hurrying there to "visit" you, and wondered how I could possibly be one of those mothers with nothing left of their child but a piece of stone.  A year ago we were still going, still fighting and working and doing everything we could to keep you comfortable and happy.  How did we end up here so soon?  How did we get to "after" so fast...and what do I do now?

As the leaves start to turn and I watch Fall arrive the sadness weighs heavier and heavier.  The beautiful blue skies and crisp days were the last we shared with you.  Soon it will be a year since you have existed with us, and that milestone bothers me.  Am I doing grief correctly?  Should your clothes still be in the closet?  Should I be writing down more memories in case they fade away?  The things I haven't touched can't really be explained -- the white board in your room still holds the record of the last med doses I gave you before critical care took over.  I don't know why I can't erase it.  Your blue bear neck pillow still rides everywhere in the van with us, but your car seat and wheelchairs and strollers were some of the first things to go.  And your little dinosaur diaper bag stays packed with your daily essentials.  I open it sometimes and touch your things, but then just hang it back up.

I think I worry that the grace I extend myself and the grace the world gives me will disappear once we hit that one year milestone.  That somehow on that day I should be ready to move on.  It's so much more complicated than that.  My heart ached when your siblings left your name off their family list in the back-to-school paperwork, but at my new job I haven't told anyone about you either.  And I understand now it's not because you belong to us any less or are any less important to us, it's that missing you is hard enough without piling on the opinions and advice of other people.  Our love for you and our joy from knowing you is so sacred now, most days I think we are all content to simply hold it close to our hearts.  I was chosen to be your mama.  This pain I carry is because I will always be your mama.  In this life and the next.