Power of Loss

I shared with you all last week how it was coming up on 6 years since the loss of our son Brody. This picture, right up there, is his little perfect feet. The rest of him was perfect too. The nurses took this picture of his feet because when I held him to tell him my goodbyes, I kept playing with his feet. Marveling at them. 

Here we are 6 years later. Tomorrow is my Brody's birthday. Those feet are still very powerful to me.  That picture means the world to me. I have other pictures, yes, but I choose not to share them. A couple of family members we sent his feet prints out to were offended by relieving them, I can only imagine what they think of our pictures of him. If only they realized they are all we will ever have of him. You don't know what it is like until you have been there...and I pray no one ever knows. 

Recently, I met a 90+ year old woman. When getting to know her, the FIRST thing she mentioned was the year she gave birth to her twin baby girls early, and they passed on. She cried. She did not know I was a loss Mom too. It stuck with me though. 70+ years after she lost her babies, and she still hurts. She still misses them. She still grieves. I wonder how many people in her life thought "Gosh, isn't she over it by now?" or "Do we need to hear about this *again*?". Yes, people do say those things. Yes, sometimes right to your face (or on the phone, in email, etc). Funny thing is, these people are NOT loss parents. It's real easy to sit in judgement when you have not had to say goodbye to one of your children way too soon.

I have been told by one of my husband's family members that since Brody never lived outside of my body, he was not really a part of their family. It amazed me how they didn't care about him. I am sure they really roll their eyes that we still grieve our son. I doubt they will ever read this, and even if they did, would they ever "get" it? They may see me as over-emotional and dramatic, but I wonder if they realize that Chris still cries over losing his son too. He still talks about what might of been. He still hurts too, and I imagine he always will.

Our son, he was real. He grew in me. He kicked, he moved, he reacted to me, he reacted to his Daddy's voice. Yes, he was tiny. However, he was alive. He was half me, half his Daddy. He had broad shoulders and a tiny button nose. I gave birth to him and I loved him just as fiercely as the other children I have birth to. The fact that he was born without breath only changed that I would never see his blue eyes. I would never see him smile. I would never hear his precious cries. I would never hold his hand. I would never anything...except tell him goodbye and miss him. 

 I still miss him. His Daddy still misses him. His siblings miss him.