Although we we enter Luke’s room every day to read Zoe bedtime stories, since the rocking chair is located there, in many ways it’s a museum, largely untouched since he died, frozen in almost exactly the same state it was in the days and weeks before our world changed forever.
His name still hangs on the door, essentially the way I drew it and the accompanying graphics in the week or so before his death, though I’d left the space for his middle name blank; Zack and I wouldn’t decide on that until we were at the hospital. (I also obviously added the quotes about stillbirth later.) Meanwhile, to this day, the board containing our goals for the week broadcasts a to-do list for parents who thought they were about to have a living child: Finish hanging things in the nursery, pack the suitcase with the going-home outfit for the baby, get the breast pumps together.
We’d added decals to the walls and space images from an old calendar to his closet doors. An “It’s a boy!” balloon from a baby shower (now deflated) hung on the closet to welcome his arrival.
We assembled the crib, which later became a dumping ground for all the boxes and detritus I simply don’t have the energy or desire to do anything with. It also holds the blanket we wrapped him in at the hospital, colored with precious drops of his blood.
We dragged up the baby swing from the basement. My mom had sent all the clothes Luke would need for the first six months of his life. I’d washed, folded, and sorted them all, and set aside extras.
While I’ve been able to look at the rest of the things, the clothes for me were the most heartbreaking. Partly because they mostly came from my mom, and signified her love for her yet-to-be-born grandson, but also because dressing a newborn baby is one of the few ways you have to build a bond in those early days of nonstop feeding, crying, and diaper changes. The clothes represented a connection I would never have with Luke, especially since I didn’t even think to take any of them to the hospital. He was naked and bare beneath his blankets, and I never got the chance to even once dress him.
So in the past nine months, I haven’t been able to bring myself to even open the drawers. That changed recently when a fellow baby loss mom, Joan, started collecting pajamas to donate to bereaved parents and their children at her local hospital in Maine. I feel a special connection to Joan because her daughter, Maeve, was lost late in her pregnancy to villitis of unknown etiology, a very similar condition to Luke’s in which Joan’s immune system attacked the placenta, resulting in large, fatal clots.
So today, for the first time, I was able to look through all of the clothes and pick out a few to send to Joan. While I did shed tears, I also felt light come into my heart knowing the purpose for which the clothes will be used.
Here is the text of the notes I included (I also enclosed the lyrics to Pink’s “Beam Me Up”):
To my friends in grief,How I wish that you did not have to be opening this card, but I hope that this sleep set brings you a small measure of comfort, knowing the love and intention with which it was carefully packed. It would have been one of my son’s first pair of pajamas—a gift from his doting grandma—but he was born still on Aug. 21, 2015, just three weeks shy of his due date, following a seemingly normal pregnancy. It has been crushing for me these past nine months to look at his clothes and know that he will never wear them. But it brings light to my heart knowing that this sleep set will be used to protect and warm one of his fellow angels. It is my greatest dream and desire that, wherever they are now, they have found each other and are playing together with much love and happiness somewhere on the other side of the rainbow.You are likely still in shock from your loss, and a part of you will always be. This sorrow will change you forever. You will never be able to live in or view this world in the same way again. The despair, anger, and regret at times will seem Iike they could swallow you whole. But I am here to tell you that although you will never be done grieving and this wound will always remain, it is possible to find a way forward, and times of laughter and happiness will come again. And you will find a way to still be a parent to your child, by incorporating them into a special place in your family life. You will always, always hold your precious baby in your heart, and nothing can ever change that.I am wishing you moments of light and love, and I am here for you any time you need it.
I don’t know if I will ever be able to use the clothes to someday dress a living baby. In the meantime, I have plans for a few more of them. And I plan to leave the nursery the way it is, at least for now. Although it’s a painful monument to our now-destroyed innocence, it also one of the few things that connects me to Luke. And that I’ll hold onto for as long as I can.
P.S. If you would like to participate in Joan’s pajama project, email me at email@example.com and I’ll hook you up.