The worst part was coming home, to the freshly painted nursery. The diapers and bottles, the crib, the toys. Coming home to the nursery that my son would never use. Not knowing what to do with the little socks and pajamas, the tiny newborn outfits. The first few days we were home my wife sat in the rocking chair in the nursery, holding the big brown teddy bear her mother gave us at the baby shower. She just sat there, for hours, not crying, not angry,…not yet. She was, like me, wondering how the universe turned inside out in one moment. How it was possible for the human emotion to flip from joy and excitement to horror and shock in a matter of milliseconds. I still get that feeling in the pit of my stomach. That feeling that your heart has fallen from your rib cage, that sick, hardened feeling that your life is about to completely unravel. That’s the last thing your body allows you to think rationally. That’s the cue for autopilot to take over for your heart and mind. That’s the feeling I got when the doctor looked at me. She didn’t need to say a thing. I could see it in her eyes.
The second worst part is dealing with everyone else, all of our family and friends who feel the loss in a smaller way. The people who send cards and dinners and call us with their sympathy and prayers. The people who want to show they care, but are afraid to cause more pain. Really, they know there is nothing that can soften the blow. They know we’re in shock, and that we’re not ready to believe or understand or move on. But they have to do something, otherwise it’s a big pink elephant in the middle of the room.
I never know what to say in response to “I’m so sorry about your loss”, I have to fight the urge to say “It’s ok,” because that’s what you say when someone apologizes; but it’s no one’s fault, and it’s not ok. I thought of saying, “I’m sorry too,” but that’s too morbid and depressing and then they may think I want to talk about it. And I don’t. I will one day, I think, but not right now. Right now I just want to hold my wife when she shakes at night and bring her tea that she doesn’t drink and toast that she doesn’t eat. So, I end up just saying “Thank you,” and turning away.
I’ve started watching Wheel of Fortune. The bright colors and the noise the wheel makes distracts me for a little while, until I start to wonder how the contestants can be so happy when my life is in shambles. When I start to get angry at them I turn the television off. I want to be entertained, to be able to shut my mind off and escape for a while, but everything perks my memory and I can’t escape the happiness of other people. No one tells you when it’ll end. No one tells you when you’ll start feeling like a person again. No one tells you how you can fix yourself or your wife or what to do with the nursery for the little boy whose name was already on the wall in big happy block letters.
People say it’ll be ok, and that they’re so sorry, that we’re in their prayers. People send flowers and meals and cards, letters, and poems. But what we really want can’t be given to us. We want a time table for grief. We want an answer from god. We want to know what to do with the nursery. We want our son back.
wow, powerful story that provoked quite a few emotions. Thank you.
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Beautiful.