Sometimes the urge to let words flow out of me becomes so strong that I find myself staring at a blank sheet of paper or, more often, a blank page on a computer screen. When I start to write, I may not be entirely sure of what I will find when I am finished. I only know that it comes from somewhere inside so deep that the words could never find their way up through my lungs and into my throat to be spoken aloud.
You see, I often find that when I open my mouth to speak, that the words are jumbled. My mouth simply can't form the sounds in the right ways to make it come out the way it was meant. The written word, however, leaves so little and so much room for interpretation. There is no inflection. There is no sarcasm. There is only the truth of what is written and that can be taken in so many ways, dependent upon the person who has found themselves reading it (that would be you, dear internet follower).
So, for whatever comes hereafter, I hope you find in it some healing or some laughter or some perspective. Whatever you find, may you enjoy it and take it in the spirit in which it is offered: one broken soul offering up a piece of herself to strangers.
Today, among many other things, I found the memorial dress made for Deagan by my friend Heather. It was hand stitched and made perfect by her hands. I love it and which I had received it in the mail before his body was turned over to the funeral home. When we were able to view him again after that, I was too afraid to undress and redress him because his paper thin skin had become sticky in the early stages of decay and I did not want to risk removing the meager garments they had prepared him in. I carried it with me to view him, but could not bear to bring harm to him, even in death, so he never wore the beautiful little white satin gown that would just have perfectly fit him.
The gown was in a pocket in my suitcase from our move here. As I began repacking for our return move to California, I found it as well as the blanket we wrapped him in and the tiny little heart given to us by the hospital that matched the blanket they gave us. The blanket with the faintest stain from his blood or mine. The heart that I tucked in close to his chest as I swaddled him after he had died so that his brother could hold him. The tiny knit hat that swallowed his even tinier head, but looked too cute in the pictures to take off. The hat that couldn't hide the swirls of dark hair at his temples that promised to grow into a thick mane had he only had the chance to live.
As I stood there, holding the few remaining mementos of the child I will never again hold or kiss, I clutched them to my chest and buried my face in them and inhaled as deeply as I could, knowing that, nearly 9 months later, any faint scent of him would not be there. But I had to try. I needed some part of him to keep with me always. Those tiny flecks of blood on the blanket. The molecules still on the heart. The microscopic hair on the hat. I needed it as close to me as it could possibly be. I wanted to just pull them inside me and hold them there, knowing even in that moment, nothing will ever fill the deep hole inside me that has been there too long.
I have been walking around incomplete since the moment a doctor spoke to me and said, "He will be born tonight and he will die." My only response to him was "What is the best case, miracles-happen, scenario" and when he told me, I told him I'd take that option instead. And I almost succeeded. I almost, through sheer force of will, determination, and fervent and constant prayer, managed to keep my son alive.
I don't know that I will ever again be that strong. I don't know that I will ever again look into the black open pit of fear and take a confident step into it, so sure that I would walk across unharmed simply by refusing to fall. It wasn't that I thought I could control it all. It wasn't that I didn't think God would force me to endure even more pain after what I'd already gone through. It was, simply, that I refused to allow it. I refused to let negativity invade and fear to take hold. I refused to be a willing victim and not fight tooth and nail to the very bitter end.
I'm not sure I have that kind of strength now. I'm not sure I have anything left at all. What I didn't lose when I lost Deagan, I give away every single day to my living son because he deserves all of my joy and my love. And I give it to my husband because he is an amazing man and person. And I have little left for myself because the fire in me, the very heat that forged the woman who refused to give in, is in an urn on my dresser. And nothing will ever be completely right again.
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