I've heard that grief comes in waves. I think grief has changed for me though. I vividly remember crying for the entire month after you passed away. The tears gradually lessened as the hole you left became more obvious. And now, grief is much more about missing you.
You would have been around 6 1/2 months old if you were born "on time". Other people's babies didn't cause me to miss you in the past, but that is no longer true. It seems everywhere I go, there is a 6 month old baby. I see them trying to stand, giving gummy smiles, holding on to their mother's shoulder or hair as they're being held. That should be you. That should be us. You would be up on all fours now, probably getting ready to crawl. You'd be eating your first solid foods, too. My guess is this "should be" never changes. In 10 years, I'll be thinking of how you should be starting 5th grade and missing you just the same as I do now.
At the same time, I am very grateful for you. I only had 10 days with you, but that's 10 more than some people get. With having just moved, it is very strange that everywhere I go, no one knows about you. I usually have to stop myself from bringing you up. I would love to talk about you all the time, wear your picture on my forehead, let the world know you were here and you were loved. But for some reason, people are very uncomfortable when talking of babies that have passed away. It's a very confusing thing because babies are alone in that category. If you lose a grandparent, no one bats an eye when you mention them. It's socially acceptable to speak of lost friends, lost relatives, and any other person who has passed. But babies, people get uncomfortable. I'm not sure why it's that way and I sure wish it wasn't. I would mention you to everyone I met if it was socially acceptable. I find it so odd that I'm meeting all these new people and they have no idea that I lost someone so precious. They see me with a daughter and have no idea I also have a son.
I've been thinking about my last few days with you on the inside. I remember how the nurses would come in to monitor your heartrate and they'd always comment about how you were so easy to track. I remember when they told me they'd finally take me off this AWFUL medicine if I didn't have a contraction in an hour. I didn't move a muscle for fear it would cause a contraction, and then they took me off the medicine. I spent another day on labor and delivery, waiting for a room to open up in the "long-term bed-rest" area. It was actually a fun day! Your sister came to visit. Daddy came too. We read books and watched a movie together. Your sister ate some of my lunch. Daddy went home to put your sister down for her nap and that was the last time we were all together as a family. Funny thing is, I didn't realize that until just now as I was typing this. I will always treasure that time. Your sister laying next to me in bed, me reading her a book, Daddy sitting in the chair by the window trying to get me to eat more of my food, and your heartbeat sounding loud on the monitor. Your sister always loved hearing your heartbeat.
Just like months before, she still talks about you. I worry how people will react when she tells them about you. She sees your life and death as fact, not emotion, but she misses you. I hope that people will give her a hug and tell her they're sorry you're gone. I'm also hoping you'll give her a hug too, since I'm sure you'll be watching over her.
I know it sounds morbid, but I recently heard one bereaved mother say that every day on this earth is one day closer to being with her son again. I don't wish my earthly days to end any time soon, but I'm glad that when they are over, I'll be with you once again. I miss you, Case.
Love Mommy
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