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Here we are, Monday again, that dreaded day that throws me right back to the Monday you were born sleeping… I get flung right back into that nightmare, that living nightmare where my world was completely turned upside down. Where I watched all my hopes and dreams shatter right before my eyes… my eyes that became clouded by darkness and despair. 8 weeks ago you left, instead of taking your weekly picture today I am left to remember your face through the only pictures I will ever have of you. How I wish I was wathcing you grow as I sat you beside the elephant that your sister took weekly pictures next to. Instead I will never see you grow, you will forever remain 4lbs7oz.
I returned to work today, eight weeks later, on my most hated day of the week. My anxiety through the roof as I was driving in. my stomach in my throat and my heart beating fast. The sad cocked head look from co-workers, the Im sorry ‘s, welcome backs etc. Was it as awkward for them as it was for me. The elephant in the room that everyone says “Im so sorry for”, say it. Say for THE DEATH OF YoUR SON! Because we are both thinking it, but no one says the words because that makes it too real, that is too much to digest . It is real, and I live with this reality daily.
I quickly say thank you and its ok because I want to move past the awkwardness and uncomfortability. I want to save you from how uncomfortable this makes you. And I dont want the attention and the awkwardness. I know most don’t really want to know how I am honestly feeling and about Parker James because its too much to bear, it goes against everhthing thay is supposed fo happen in life. A child should not die before the parent, a baby should not die before it lives in the world. And how could anyone truly want to face the reality that it could be their child, their grandchild, their niece or nephew who dies. The awkward conversation with the client who knows Parker died. Who asks how I am doing without saying what happened, as his eyes well up and he says he has a card for me but didnt know what to write in it. I tell him I am good. It is my role to help him, not have him concerned with how I am. I walk the fine line, of wanting to do nothing but talk all about Parker and show his pictures and wanting no one to bring it up because I dont want them uncomfortable. And because I dont want to talk about it unless I can be real with you. Real with how much it hurts, real with the details of his birth and death, real with how I feel. And perhaps it is in the silence, the deafening silence where the true real is… listen closely as my silence screams…
bornperfectlystillbornperfectly 