Four Years

A lot can happen in four years. You can have babies. Move houses. Change jobs. You can break.

And a lot can stay the same in 4 years. Your heart might have a crack that doesn't ever fill in. Your gut might get still tight whenever you hear a name. Your head might ache after replaying an event over and over. Your arms might still twitch anxious to hold the baby you didn't get enough time with.

We have a cabinet that I keep Henry's stuff in. He never saw the blankets and the turtle that was once in his crib, only a week away from snuggling him. But I have them in there. Along with every card, every note and every gift that was given to us after he died. And there is a box where I keep everything from the hospital. The gown I envisioned putting on his tiny body to bring him home for the first time. The hat the nurses put on his poor little head. The lock of hair they cut for me and tape measure where they marked his length. 19.5"I often wonder if he would have been much longer had he not got tangled up in that cord. He probably would have weighed more than 4lbs since he likely lost a bit of weight in the few days he waited inside me. But I'll never know or sure.

I'll never know a lot of things. I'll never know what it's like to raise a child with Down Syndrome. I'll never know the stress and worry about seeing specialists and fighting bullies. I'll never know if we would still have Sam and Bo. If we would have moved. If I would be a photographer. But those things don't matter. Because they can't be changed. I do not get hung up on those things. I try to be grateful for what has happened. The many positive things. And though there are days where I am grumpy for no reason, or I snap unprovoked, or I don't want to talk to anyone but rather just sit in the quiet, I know they are not without reason. And I'm beginning to allow myself to just stop and feel. Rather than push them off and ignore the hurt, I'm embracing it. Because I'm not healed. Pushing it away doesn't work. And maybe I'll never heal. I'm just doing whatever feels right. And now that Sam is old enough to ask questions, and now that he knows what the word "brother" really means, I answer his questions honestly for the first time. When he wants to play with the turtle in the cabinet, I tell him he can give it a hug because it was his brothers. And when he asks if it's Bo's, I'll remind him it's his other brother, Henry's. And that Henry lives in the clouds. Because that's what I believe.

I get a lot of messages and emails from people who have been through this or know someone who has. A stillbirth, miscarriage, infant loss. And no one knows what to do. It's not something you learn about unless you have to. It's not something you know how to handle unless you have to. I don't have the right answers for some people. Everyone copes differently. But I'll lend my ear and share my story in hopes that it's helpful to someone. And I don't feel know what the hell I'm talking about, I just told my son his brother lives in the clouds. But at the same time, I unfortunately do know what the hell I'm talking about. I will tell that person that it sucks. And they will always be broken. They will never be the same. They will move on but they will never be the same. They might not ever heal. I'll tell them it's ok to forget about it sometimes. And that it's ok to laugh and smile. And it's also ok to cry and yell or do whatever to get it out. I'll tell them that no one knows what to say to them, and that it's ok. I'll tell them some people might literally run in the other direction when they see them but it's not because they are that hard to look at, it's because that other person thinks they will say the wrong thing.

So as I go over and over this day 4 years ago in my head,  I'll remember the blue shirt I was wearing. And I'll remember knowing what the doctor was about to tell me but telling Phil not to worry anyway, saving him a few minutes of hurt. I'll also remember looking out the windows of my labor and delivery room at a sunny playground filled with kids playing innocently as I waited for my pitocin to start. I'll remember the eerie feeling of having met my nurse before although she was a stranger. I'll remember the heartbreak on my doctors face as this was his first stillbirth. I'll remember feeling numb as if I was floating above it all. And as I remember all of this and so much more, I'll take a few minutes of quiet to throw my head back, look up and search for my Henry. Because he lives in the clouds.