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Friday, July 15, 2016

the box on the shelf

There's a box on a shelf in my room that came to me about 3 years ago. It's from the hospital where Isaac was born, lived, and died. I'm not sure what is in it because I can't bear to open it. I do know it probably contains the plaster molds they took of his feet and hands, and the clothes they dressed him in after he died. I couldn't do it; bathing him, dressing him, like a doll. I was thankful my mom was there to help with it. I just couldn't.

Today it finally happened. A consultant on the phone at worked asked if I was going to have another kid, a playmate for my son. I paused. Should I just say, "nope, Nathan is a handful all by himself!' and laugh it off like I normally do? For some reason, this time I said I did have another child, a little boy who passed away 3 years ago. He was very sick. The consultant paused and said he was so sorry. I said it was ok. We kept talking about work stuff.
It felt good to talk about him, that he was real, that he mattered. It hurt like hell. But I didn't cry, even when he called later to apologize. I sent him this blog so I could tell him Isaac's story. He called and said he had tears, as he drove from a job site, that it was so sad.

so sad.

I'm so sad.

Every day I keep going, step by step. Just stay busy. But I'm so sad.
I have bins and bins of Nathan's old clothes. Some here, some at my mom's house. They were supposed to be Isaac's clothes. What do I do with them? Just the question hurts. I should donate them, I think, that would be the nice thing to do. A stroller in the closet. A high chair in the attic. All waiting for a little boy who never came home. I save it all for him. I always thought I would have another. But now? I don't think I can go through it again. It hurts just to write that. I want to have hope, but my hope was crushed.

When I first had Nathan, three felt like a great family. But now, three feels so uneven. Three seats at a booth; a booth half empty. Three seats on a rollercoaster; someone sits by themself. He's always missing.

If I had words to make a day for you
I'd sing you a morning, golden and true
I would make this day last for all time
then fill the night deep in moon shine
Farmer Hoggett, Babe

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