Heart Shudders

All morning since I opened my eyes my heart keeps fluttering. It feels like tiny doses of adrenaline are being pumped straight inside and causing it to bounce around. This will likely continue for a little while.

Gabriel's birthday is next Monday. Our baby boy. One year old. I should have pictures of him at 3 months smiling. 6 months eating solids. 9 months crawling. He should be almost walking by now, trying to chase after his big sister and brother.

Instead, he is dust. Inside a box that collects dust.

So much dust. My heart shudders because it has a longing to be with him; with all four of them. Caught in a battle of beating and wanting to stop. Stuck in the in-between. So I feel the fluttering.

I think of all the ways I 'could' or 'should' honor him at this one year anniversary. I compare myself with other loss moms who do such beautiful remembrances; those who have words of honey to describe their journey. Mine have been bitter and resentful. Mine have not been pretty. Out of respect for readers I leave the swear words out, but they echo in my head.

Some of the emotions have waned a bit and I am thankful for that. Grief has turned into a tiredness that I can't even put words to. I started taking medication to take the edge off, finally making the call to my psychiatrist a few months ago. Every morning my feet hit the ground I felt the need to get right back under the covers. Everything felt heavy. Everything bothered me and nothing bothered me.

I was numb. I didn't have the energy to grieve. I wasn't writing as much.

With the medication, my energy is back now. And so are the feelings. Sometimes I can get back to that numb feeling after a couple glasses of wine. No, I'm not drinking away my pain.

But sometimes I want to. Isn't that something?

Just a little bit drunk, I say during therapy. I feel like nothing can hurt me then. 

And before the alarm bells go off and you want to call me with some kind of intervention, just know that I am well taken care of. I don't drink often. Many people in my life would step in if I started sliding down that slope. I honestly don't want to drink my feelings away.

I just want to not hurt this bad.

Our last day with Gabriel.

There is something about that last day that makes everything so intense and then so hard to remember. I'm grateful for the notebook and pens Jamey brings to the hospital so I can write my feelings as they come. Without this little pink book, I would never be able to write these words or remember the feelings with such detail one year later.

My sister and mom come up to visit first thing in the morning. My sister Baby (yep, that's what we call her) brings me new pajamas and a robe. She tells me she just wants me to be comfortable, and it is the sweetest gesture. She and my mom spend the morning helping me shower and get dressed. I love the new pajamas and at the same time it hurts to be in anything other than my hospital gown.

I see it as the first step in saying goodbye to Gabriel.

A nurse comes into the room. Kaila, we're sorry to tell you this, but your hospital in Aurora will not come to pick him up for an autopsy. They say that because he was not born there...they won't do it.

We call the funeral home next. We're sorry but that is just too far. We do not pick up bodies from the Quad Cities.

No one wants him. No one wants our dead child.

The rejection is hard to fathom. I cannot believe our last day is going to be spent figuring out who we can trust to take his body. I feel so lost and lonely.

Kaila...what about Tweety? my Mom quietly asks.

My jaw drops. My cousin (and yes, we call her Tweety) is the director of a local funeral home. She will know how to help us. My Mom picks up the phone and dials her number. Explains what's happened, and then puts me on the phone.

I say a few words and then I stop. I can't talk anymore. I really don't want to discuss the process of handing Gabriel over. I'm able to swallow the lump in my throat just enough to whisper a thank you to my cousin. I will see you tomorrow morning at 9am, she says.

Now we have a countdown. The clock is an enemy.

I wrack my brain thinking of things we still need to do. Gabriel gets a haircut on this last day. His skin is so soft and delicate that I worry one wrong move and he'll be hurt. He has quite a bit of hair, but it's very fine and hard to get.

I worry that it's a bother to ask for his hair. People have better things to do than this.

Thankfully my nurses never make me feel that way; I'm the only one to give this voice any power.

After we collect his hair into the tiniest baggie, my parents say their goodbyes. I sneak in a picture of their last moment with him. I don't even know if they know I took one.

Then we're alone. Jamey heads to the store at one point to pick up some food and a movie. He says he wants to have a little date night in the hospital, holding Gabriel at any time we wish. He comes back with multiple rolls of sushi, strawberry shortcake, and The Greatest Showman. I'd like to make tonight as happy as we can, he says.

We eat and talk. We never get to the movie, and at one point our nurse asks us if we'd like to step outside to get some fresh air. The thought sounds fantastic and we make the slow trek to the doors leading outside. It's pitch black and we can see all the stars. We make a small loop around the parking circle right outside and sit on a bench. It's chilly, but there's no wind.

I feel like I'm breathing real air for the first time in years. Looking at a new sky. In a sense, I am. My first time looking at the sky since my second child has died. It's breathtaking and horrifying. I know I'll never get this time back.

These moments will only ever be relived through words.

My sister comes for a late night visit to say her goodbyes. We hold Gabriel and we cry, but mostly...we laugh. I'm not even sure if this year I've laughed as hard as I did that night with her. The only real thing I remember talking about is how ridiculously large Gabriel's clothes and hats are. They're made for preemies but he's still too tiny for them. I search for a word to describe what he looks like and I just can't find it. A strange word comes out of my mouth and we laugh so hard I have to ask her to leave. I'm sure my incision is about to burst open from the belly laughs.

She heads for the door and I remember the word.

SHERPA.

He looks like a tiny sherpa in his giant crocheted hat.

We giggle one last time, knowing that tomorrow there will be no laughter.

Knowing tomorrow there will be an autopsy.

Knowing tomorrow that I'll have to accept he's really dead.

Knowing it's over.

And there's nothing I can do to change that.