Up until yesterday, I dreaded the 1 year mark of my baby's birth. I'm going to be honest, I haven't even been back to his grave since he passed away. I just didn't want to miss him anymore then I already did every single day. And I felt like somehow, it would be like pouring salt in the wound.
But as May 3rd came and went, I came to understand a little more about what it means to heal. Saturday morning I was staying at my in-laws preparing for plans we had made with both families for the 1 year mark that night (more on that to come). Because they live so close to Primary Children's, I decided to go there, and my sister-in-law, Lise, joined me. I knew no matter how terrified I was, I had to confront my fear. Jon was studying for the MCAT he takes in a few days, and he told me later that he couldn't have done it, even if he wanted to. That surprised me; there are few things my husband admits to not being able to do.
As we drove up the familiar hill past the U of U flags and the "Primary Chilrden's" sign, I suddenly felt a peaceful feeling come over me. We parked, and walked through the entrance and passed the front desk, and it felt like a déjà vu. My heart pounded as we made our way up the elevator to the NICU. We stopped at the locked doors that require you to call in and tell them the family you are with before they will let you in. I suddenly missed what it was like a year ago, when I had full access to anything I wanted because I was the mother of a baby there. But now he was gone, and I was a stranger to them.
I thought there was no way they'd let me in, but for my own sake, I had to try. I picked up the phone: "Reception, can I ask who you are here for?" came from the other end. Suddenly the thought crossed my mind: "You should have never come here." But I mustered up the courage and told them I wasn't there for anyone, but I had a son that was born exactly a year ago that stayed here and eventually died here and I just wanted to go inside for just a minute. She sounded confused and eventually said "Okay, but we can't let you go in any of the rooms." I told her that was okay, and the doors swung open. It felt surreal as I made my way up to the front desk, passing the room he died in on my way there. I was greeted by a nurse, asking how she could help me. The receptionist told her, "She lost a baby here last year." The nurse responded kindly, "Oh! Who was your baby?" Suddenly, the tears started coming before I could stop them. "My baby?" I thought. It threw me off guard how hard I had to try not to start bawling. I rarely cry just because someone brings him up, but the familiar feeling in that room, the fact that his incubator was right around the corner, and the room he died in was just a few steps to my left.. I couldn't speak without crying.
It felt like no time had passed, like it was just yesterday I was here with Jon for hours at a time, worried about whether Jon Gabriel's condition would continue to get worse. I wanted so badly to be able to walk around the corner, see him in his incubator, tell the nurse I was his mom, and be able to hold him again. But that wasn't possible, and I knew the nurse that had greeted me was still waiting for a response, so I managed to whisper, "I'm sorry". That was all I could say. "Don't you apologize," she said softly, "Take all the time you need." She gave me a hug and 2 other nurses came up and asked what the situation was. They both asked if they could give me a hug and told me how sorry they were, and it occurred to me that they saw this kind of thing all the time, but they treated me like I was the first. It reminded me how good the team at Primary Children's was to us when we found out about the defects and made plans for surgery, and how hard they fought to keep my son alive for those 5 days he was here.
After a few minutes, we left. I went and sat in the lobby for a minute, and just let myself cry over how hard it was to go in there knowing he wasn't there anymore, and allow all the emotions to hit me all over again. But within a few minutes, something beautiful took place inside of me. I felt liberated, and a relief swept over me as I realized I had overcome a major obstacle. I left Primary Children's feeling whole, like I had done my part in allowing myself to be comforted.
And it occurred to me that sometimes, the healing is in the aching.
