I am going to a baby's wake.
It's my first guest post here at Lizdom, and I should be chipper and reflective and be trying to entice you to come read my blog. I should be entertaining you while Liz is finally at Disney with her two kids, having the time of her life (I hope!). I should be introducing you to myself (Lindsey, almost 30, married almost 3 years, mom to 3 kids, one of whom has autism, and that's what I write about on my blog). Liz and I "met" online 9 (WOW) years ago, when we were pregnant with our daughters. Liz became a big sister/motherly figure to me and an integrel part of my single Mommy support system for Ava's first few years. Liz and I were delighted to meet in person, several times now, in Indiana and in Connecticut (where I live). We are very very good at understanding each other, and our parenting styles. We lift each other up.
But I'm going to a baby's wake tomorrow, and I am not sure what else I could really write about tonight.
He was born early, but not super early - 30 weeks. But for whatever reason, he simply never woke up, and has needed to be on life support since the day he was born. MRIs, EEGs, CT scans, 2nd, 3rd, 4th opinions: The baby would never wake up. And for a month he didn't, and then the family had to make the really tough decision to let his body join his spirit, and be released. And they did.
They have two more little boys at home, 2 and 4, who I'm sure can't comprehend a whole lot of this.
The mother is a friend of mine, not a terribly close friend, but a friend. I'm not sure how wide her net of support is, and I do not want to be intrusive or anything. But I really want to hug her, and I look forward to hugging her tomorrow, and telling her a lot of things, with my hug:
I may not exactly know your pain, in fact I'm sure I don't, but my experience with our son having autism has taught me this:
How it feels to lose every dream you had for your son.
How it feels to lose every dream you had for your family.
How it feels to blame yourself for everything that went wrong.
How it feels to relive every moment in your head, every minute of every day.
How it feels to not be able to hug the baby boy you loved.
How it feels to grieve for all of these things, and have no one understand the pain.
I want her to know that although my son is here and walking and talking and beautiful, I know the difference in our pain is immense, so immense, it's unmeasurable.
But I am grieving, too. Though I am being delivered, daily, from my grief in ways she can't be. I will hold her hand as we walk down this road.
Prayers lifted up to heaven for this family, and for their very special angel, Max.
I don't know why these things happen, to sweet baby boys.
But I know that some day, we will all find a life after our grief, and there will be some peace. That is what I wish for her. I wish her peace, a speedy delivery of peace.