The Unspeakable Spoken

It’s been a month since our baby boy Gibson entered and exited this world, reordering Dustin and I’s entire existence in three short days. I wonder though, how is that possible? Because only a moment ago, I was aching with pregnancy pains in my everywhere. Snoring that loud pregnancy snore each night, waking up each morning already needing a nap. Thinking I may never move and walk normally again. It seems impossible that reality has shifted so dramatically, that the world still turns, and that time has continued. For me, it all still feels just like yesterday.

At this moment, I find myself sitting in his nursery. Occupying space in a rocking chair meant for two. A sacred space of sleep, of comfort, of nursing, of sweet baby giggles, and of urgent hungry cries. Instead, it’s a very still morning. No rustling, no movement, no audible sounds. But in Gibson’s crib sits the tiniest little box of ashes and the silence that they represent to me is deafening.

Grief demands to be seen. It demands to be acknowledged. Sometimes in strange ways. A few days ago, for example, I unexpectedly burst into tears because I couldn’t decide whether to eat leftovers again or if we should change it up and get takeout. Grief comes and goes in waves, on its own schedule, in its own time, and manifests in a multitude of forms.

I could try to avoid it. To stuff it all down. But in truth, I don’t really want to. Going to that place in my mind is now the only remaining connection that I have left to Gibson. And even though it hurts, I want to be there with him. I want to feel him. To remember the way it felt to hold him in my arms for the first and last time, kissing his sweet face to say goodbye. I replay those precious few days, filled with so much beauty and so much pain, over and over again in my head.

People ask how we are doing and I never fully know how to respond because there are so many answers to that question. We are just deeply in it right now. Countless thoughts and feelings all coexisting as one:

– We are coping as best we can, admittedly sometimes better than others.

– We are talking about him and to him whenever it is needed.

– We are sad because our arms long to hold him one more time.

– We are happy when people ask us things like “Can we see his nursery?” Or “Who did he look most like?” because then it feels like it really happened.

– We are constantly questioning ourselves, wondering if there was anything we could or should have done differently.

– We are remembering his sweet nose, perfect toes, and soft skin.

– We are honoring his courageous fight and his brief but meaningful life.

– We are crying and the tears remind us that he existed and mattered.

– We are writing things down because some thoughts shouldn’t live only in your head.

– We are angry and we feel incredibly cheated.

– We are absolutely terrified that it could happen again.

– We are finding laughter where we can and it fills our souls.

– We are distracting ourselves when we need a break because you can’t live in dark spaces all the time.

– We are making new memories because it’s what Gibson would have wanted.

– We are mourning lost dreams and stolen moments.

It’s so tempting to want to rush through all this and get back to normal. But the honest truth is that we’re not really “okay.” And it’s okay that we are not okay. We are everything above and more, all at once, because we are parents grieving the loss of our son. This grief is ours to feel and live in because Gibson was ours to love and it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

We also find ourselves so incredible grateful for our family and friends who are in it with us.

Those who bake us delicious treats and hearty meals, who travel thousands of miles to be beside us, who wash our dishes and clean our clothes, who send us flowers and cards and notes and gifts, who ask for our story and listen when we tell it, who text us just to say hi, who plan outings to distract us, who love us and grieve with us, who don’t offer platitudes but instead their consistent presence.

These things and so much more have carried us as we carry this grief.

Right now we are grieving the loss of the life we had before Gibson and the life we were supposed to have with Gibson. It feels like we no longer belong to our current world. Someday though, we’ll develop a new rhythm and a new life will grow from the foundation of this current pain. But for today, we are simply existing in this transitional space with all the good and bad it brings. And that has to simply be enough.