Profound: being or going far beneath what is superficial, external, or obvious; originating in or penetrating to the depths of one's being, ex: profound grief
~www.dictionary.com
Everything in my life has added significance now. For a person who was overly sentimental before, the death of a child adds a new layer of meaning and sentimentality that can be beautiful but is more often paralyzing and/or heartbreaking. Simple, mundane moments become imbued with meaning. I hope it leads to a deeper appreciation for my blessings when I am able to focus on something besides my pain.
So, the crib saga continued today. I guess that's a good sign. It means some of the paralysis is gone. I mentioned in my last post that we are going to get Caroline's big-girl bed this weekend. When I was first pregnant with Weston, we expected that he would occupy the crib and, therefore, that Caroline would need to relinquish it a few months before Weston needed it. Although we planned to co-sleep with Weston for up to the first year like we did with Caroline, this type-A-in-some-ways mom wanted the nursery ready before he was born. Oh, speaking of co-sleeping with Weston, I hadn't thought of that until now. Rip my heart out.
Before my pregnancy complications started, we had figured we'd do the crib-to-bed switch during the summer. Any urgency regarding the bed (and potty training) disappeared when my bed rest started. Since Weston died, I have not had the energy or patience to do anything. Until our trip to Connecticut.
Caroline has been a good sleeper for most of my life, and Lord knows I NEED my sleep. When I was on bed rest, we tried putting Caroline's crib mattress on the floor (Shannon was at work by the time she woke up, and I couldn't lift her). It was a disaster; nobody slept. Fast forward to Connecticut: she slept in a twin bed, and it went really well. Except for the three times she fell out of bed. Oops. So now that she's used to the bed and doing well, we want to do the big switch while the bed is still familiar. We got a few more things for her room at Ikea today, and I was looking forward to getting her "new" room set up this weekend.
Until tonight, when I thought about the fate of the crib. It was going to be moved next door to Weston's room. I would have been about six weeks away from having Weston right now. Caroline's crib bedding has a lot of pink in it, so I was going to need something neutral. Now it will have to be dismantled and stored in the garage or attic until we can bear to make a decision about what to do with it.
Moving up to a big-kid bed is a big deal. Caroline is excited about it. A fellow bereaved mom, with additional children both older and younger than her angel baby, has said that she has to be careful that she doesn't cause her other children to live in her deceased child's shadow. That is so true, yet so hard to do right now. I'm even calling them "the other children." I don't want Caroline's transition to occur in Weston's shadow. But watching the crib get stored away in pieces where it is just going to collect dust is going to be very difficult for me. Maybe I should leave the house for that part of the bedroom project and come back for the assembly of the new bed.
It is getting even harder to see pregnant women now. I still have six weeks to go. It's bad now; I have no idea how I am going to endure another six weeks. It is especially difficult to see a pregnant woman with a toddler in tow; that's supposed to be my family. Those other moms and I are supposed to be trading stories: do you know if it's a boy or girl? How close in age will your kids be? How does big brother/sister feel about the new arrival? I chatted with such a woman at Ikea today while looking at kid tables. There were a few selections, and she ended up picking the bigger one (like I did) because she will have two kids sitting at that table, she said. Ouch. My child will share her table with her stuffed animals.
I lost my watch at the hospital when Weston was born, and I haven't bought a replacement. Time stopped when he was born, and I can't bear to start it up again. See, I make everything profound! When I get sufficiently annoyed with fishing my phone out of my giant purse to check the time, I will get a new one. And that moment is fast approaching.
This morning during breakfast, Caroline asked me where my watch is. I never talk about my watch, so I don't know why she asked me that. I told her I lost it. She asked, "Did Baby Weston take your watch?" Wow. I paused and said, "Well, yes, I suppose he did, in a way." (Note to self: don't forget that three-year-olds are quite literal. You do not want Caroline thinking that her baby brother steals watches.) Then she asked, "Are you going to get it back from him?" Unbelievable. This child sure knows how to feed her mother's sentimentality. I just love her. I simply told her no and left it at that. Somehow, I think she gets it.
At the beginning of this post, I mentioned that the formerly simple, now profound moments have the potential to be beautiful. One of those moments occurred tonight. My mom took a lot of pictures of our family on the beach. While I feel anything but joyful about the upcoming holiday season right now, I figured it would be prudent to have some decent family photos in case we do a Christmas card. Which raises another issue: how do we take a true family photo now? It would just immortalize our terrible loss. We will never have a complete family photo again.
Once again, Caroline had the answer. My mom emailed me a few photos tonight. There is one family picture in the bunch. I am holding Caroline. She is carefully holding my necklace with Weston's ashes in both of her hands. The pendant is turned perfectly toward the camera.
“Do not judge the bereaved mother.
She comes in many forms.
She is breathing, but she is dying.
She may look young, but inside she has become ancient.
She smiles, but her heart sobs.
She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works, she IS,
but she IS NOT, all at once.
She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity.”
~Anonymous
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