You've come a long way, baby! (oh yeah) Part One

I wanted to get Grant's Birthday stuff posted before this, but it took a little longer for me to put together our memory baskets for the hospital than I thought.

So it's been two years! Two years since our little Grant was in our arms. Two years since we saw his little face.  Two years since we were a family of "four".  Mind you, we are STILL a family of four, and always will be, but here on this earth people will only see three of us.

I still wonder what people are thinking sometimes. I shouldn't-- I know, but I do.  For every person who is understanding of our situation, I'm sure there are two others who aren't.  So for those skeptics out there who think I'm still a basket case here's a list of how much I've progressed in the last two years-

• I survived months of bedrest, a 30 some hour labor and Csection delivery with an epidural that didn't work- all for a baby who I didn't get to take home.  I did all this without ending up in a mental institution. (no one is more surprised than I am)
• I endured being wheeled out of the hospital with empty arms and attended my son's funeral a little more than a day after I delivered him.  (thanks to some really good drugs)
• Two days later I attended his burial and spent the next two weeks with cabbage leaves flattened up against my chest to stop the milk that kept coming in to feed a baby who wasn't there.  (other unpleasant side effects were going on too, but you really don't want to know about those)
• Now, two years later...I can see a baby without bursting into tears.  Still not excited about holding other people's babies, but will do it if I feel I can do it without crying
• Instead of having nightmares about my baby,  I occasionally have happy dreams about seeing him alive.
• I can sleep without the use of sedatives.
• I can smile and laugh again.  This was VERY hard for me b/c I felt like I was betraying my baby by doing so.
• In the beginning I would not get out of bed-- I just cried off and on all day.  Now I get up, shower, and take care of my son like normal people would.
• I painted a lot of walls in my house--it was relaxing therapy
• I'm singing in the church choir now!! It took me over a year to be able to sing without crying.
• Two years ago, I could only get a word or two out before I would start crying. Now I can speak full sentences with NO lumps in my throat.
• I am working in the church toddler nursery once a month.

Holidays, angelversaries, baby dedications, and Mother's Day/Father's Day are still difficult, but I know that eventually those things will be easier too.

So here we are, two years later...and it's time again to remember our little boy.  Last year, the one year mark, was hard- but honestly, I thought the second year was harder.  A friend of mine thought maybe because two years just seems so long now since it all happened.  I think she might be right. It DOES seem so long.  And yet, when the memories come flooding back of all the events- it seems like just a few weeks ago. Bottom line-- I. MISS. HIM.  I will always miss him. I can see him in my mind- all over the place. I can see him (like a little shadow) playing beside his big brother.  I can almost see him sitting in the fourth chair at our table. I see him playing with his baby cousin, and I see him playing with our neighbor's little girl.  I can see him in the nursery pushing trucks back and forth to me with the other kids his age. I can almost hear him saying, "mama".

And I really missed him for his birthday- we made a cake- but just as last year, he wasn't here to eat it.

But, in spite of all the missing we do, we know that he is happy, cared for and loved.  And he would not want to come back. And why should he? He's in H.E.A.V.E.N.!!!! I wouldn't want to come back either!  So, for now, we just have to wait.  To WAIT. Waiting has never been my forte. But it seems I have no choice in the matter. So while I'm waiting, I am choosing to make good use of my time by helping other families who are walking this same road- the painful road of infant loss.