I sit down at my computer to write, and I'm shaking. Maybe it's the coffee. Maybe. It's time to finish writing out Gabriel's story.
I shake every time I begin. Every time I talk about him. It's not noticeable to others, this physical response to talking about my boys. But it's there. More of a trembling I would say. The boys are gone; that fact never changes...but my body feels it more in the storytelling.
I've shared much about the day before and the day of Gabriel's birth. I've shared snippets even of what it was like mothering him in the days after he was gone. Eleven months. Our boy has been gone for nearly eleven months. And the last time I wrote about our hospital stay was 8 months ago.
I'm ready to talk about him more. Talk about those last two days we had with him in the hospital and the love that was showered on us by everyone we came into contact with during our stay. I'm ready to share the details about preparing for goodbye, holding his little body for the very last time, and going home. The sadness I felt looking into the eyes of the two little ones who depended on me and just wanting to be back in the hospital with their little brother.
It's not all pretty. There were some good moments, and I wish I could say that almost one year later I've been able to come to terms and feel at peace with his life and death.
I can't say that, though. I grieve this little boy and his big brother before him each and every day.
Sometimes my grief looks like anger.
Sometimes it looks like impatience.
Frustration. Anxiety. Bitterness.
...And sometimes it looks like gratitude.
Sometimes it looks like a 'normal' day.
Always it looks like why, God, why?
My grief takes many forms. I carry it with me. I carry them with me.
Before I go into more detail, before I 'finish' his story (although as long as I'm living, his story will never be finished), I'd like to share with you what we're grieving.
I grieve the little feet. The tiny fingers. That sweet little expressive face. I grieve that he sits on a shelf. I grieve that I can never hug or hold or kiss my sons again.
I grieve that Edward has a big brother shirt in storage he will never wear again.
I grieve that Mira talks about wanting to be a mommy one day, even if her babies are dead.
I grieve that I have one twenty minute video of Gabriel's life.
He kicked me with the little foot you see here. He never made a noise, but the faces he made were precious. Yes, it's hard to watch. That is my son there. I've missed 11 months of a life we should have had with him. I'll miss everything about his future we never got to see.
He was here.
I'll love and grieve this tiny boy for the rest of my life.
My heart will never be the same again.
I shake every time I begin. Every time I talk about him. It's not noticeable to others, this physical response to talking about my boys. But it's there. More of a trembling I would say. The boys are gone; that fact never changes...but my body feels it more in the storytelling.
I've shared much about the day before and the day of Gabriel's birth. I've shared snippets even of what it was like mothering him in the days after he was gone. Eleven months. Our boy has been gone for nearly eleven months. And the last time I wrote about our hospital stay was 8 months ago.
I'm ready to talk about him more. Talk about those last two days we had with him in the hospital and the love that was showered on us by everyone we came into contact with during our stay. I'm ready to share the details about preparing for goodbye, holding his little body for the very last time, and going home. The sadness I felt looking into the eyes of the two little ones who depended on me and just wanting to be back in the hospital with their little brother.
It's not all pretty. There were some good moments, and I wish I could say that almost one year later I've been able to come to terms and feel at peace with his life and death.
I can't say that, though. I grieve this little boy and his big brother before him each and every day.
Sometimes my grief looks like anger.
Sometimes it looks like impatience.
Frustration. Anxiety. Bitterness.
...And sometimes it looks like gratitude.
Sometimes it looks like a 'normal' day.
Always it looks like why, God, why?
My grief takes many forms. I carry it with me. I carry them with me.
Before I go into more detail, before I 'finish' his story (although as long as I'm living, his story will never be finished), I'd like to share with you what we're grieving.
I grieve the little feet. The tiny fingers. That sweet little expressive face. I grieve that he sits on a shelf. I grieve that I can never hug or hold or kiss my sons again.
I grieve that Edward has a big brother shirt in storage he will never wear again.
I grieve that Mira talks about wanting to be a mommy one day, even if her babies are dead.
I grieve that I have one twenty minute video of Gabriel's life.
He kicked me with the little foot you see here. He never made a noise, but the faces he made were precious. Yes, it's hard to watch. That is my son there. I've missed 11 months of a life we should have had with him. I'll miss everything about his future we never got to see.
He was here.
I'll love and grieve this tiny boy for the rest of my life.
My heart will never be the same again.
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