Madeline

When I first got out of the hospital after delivering Oliver, I couldn’t wait for time to pass. I wanted to put so much distance between myself and July 16 that it couldn’t hurt me anymore. I wanted to escape the aching feeling I experienced when I thought about him and what all I would no longer have with him. I had convinced myself that the way to do that was simply time. I had told myself that as time went on, it wouldn’t always be this hard to breathe, and I would eventually feel okay again.

But now that time is passing, I hate it. It hurts. Everything feels worse.

I feel like everything I remember about Oliver, all the tiny, small pieces I got of him over the few days in the hospital, are slipping away. As time goes on and each day passes, the distance between now and the only time I got to hold my son — the only time I’ll ever get to — grows. I keep getting further and further away from the only moments I had with my son.

When I miss him, I can’t check his baby monitor or pop into his room to watch him sleep. Instead, I have to dig deep into the most painful experience of my life and relive it if I want to see him again. The only way I get to spend time with Oliver is while also remembering how awful our circumstances were. I have to soak in the grief if I want even a glimpse of him, and that isn’t fair.

I blocked out so much of our hospital stay, because it was traumatic and terrible. So much of those 5 days are a blur. And now it feels like every day I have to think a little harder, dig a little deeper to recall anything I remember about him. I’m afraid that as time continues to pass, it will only get harder, until I can hardly remember his details at all. I have photos that a nurse was so kind to take of us in the hospital, but that isn’t enough. Those are the only moments of my son that were captured. He will forever be 27 weeks, 2 lb 6 ozs.

Time passing means my milk supply is drying up, which I begged for. It was one of the most traumatic parts of Oliver’s death and a constant reminder that my body didn’t know or understand that my son was dead. I tried everything to dry it up. But now that it’s gone, it’s just a cruel reminder that my body is moving on, while my mind can’t.

Cooler weather used to mean my favorite time of the year was here, but now it fills me with an ache, because Oliver will never experience the breeze on a chilly fall day. The sound of football on the t.v. and announcers discussing games feels like a slap in the face. I was so excited to spend lazy Saturdays watching football with Oliver. I even had a Gamecock sleeper ready for him to lounge around in. Now it just sits in the nursery untouched. The thought of the holiday season is unbearable, because he should be here.

Sure, I have his weighted bear. Sure, I could bring it with me. That might provide a small amount of comfort, but it isn’t a trade off. It isn’t a replacement. Nothing can take away from the fact that Oliver should be here, and he isn’t.

I wanted time to pass so quickly. I remember in the days after I was discharged from the hospital, I wanted to sleep the entire day just so it would feel like each day was shorter and shorter. I couldn’t wait to pass milestone after milestone: one month out, two months out, his due date, the holiday season. I had convinced myself months ago that healing = distance. But now I painfully realize that isn’t the case. All distance does is remind me that I don’t have him.