As I drive to my first one since Molly's passing, I experience a strange mixture of feelings. Happiness for my dear friend who is expecting. Nervousness at the thought of seeing wrapped packages and ribbons, sealing precious pink clothing.
I pull up and see all the cars and I don't know if I can go in. I sit there for a few minutes gathering enough courage to open the car door.
Then I decide to make a deal with myself. I'll go in, drop off the present, flash a smile, and leave.
Here we go.
Walking through the front door, I am seized with a million emotions. I concentrate on the task at hand and try not to break down and make a scene. This is my friend's big day, after all.
I waltz over with mustered confidence, put my present down on the growing pile, and continue to the dessert table. It's only then that I realize the chatter has died down. I receive a few pity glances and I suddenly want to escape. I don't want the attention to turn to me at my friend's joyous occasion.
The hostess, another dear friend, catches my arm in the kitchen and pulls me into a soft hug. Tears start to form and I accept the inevitable.
Its all I can do to hold back the tears long enough to make it out to my car. I sit in the driver's seat and wonder how it's possible to feel a physical ache in my empty arms.
I need to be by my Molly.
I make the short drive to the cemetery and try to see through my blurred vision. Tears fall freely as I park and make my way to my sweet baby's resting place.
My heart swells at the tender words written on her stone,
I stand there weeping and again marvel at my body's capacity to feel physical pain when it should be only emotional. The grass is wet and fresh from recent rainfall, but I drop to the ground anyway. I sit there curled up next to my baby's grave for a long time. I tenderly finger the writing etched on her stone and think about what it was like to touch her skin the same way.
Oh my sweet baby. Oh my heart.
Deep breath.
Getting up, my legs feel numb and shaky. I walk past the other infant graves and get into my car.
First shower, done.
I pull up and see all the cars and I don't know if I can go in. I sit there for a few minutes gathering enough courage to open the car door.
Then I decide to make a deal with myself. I'll go in, drop off the present, flash a smile, and leave.
Here we go.
Walking through the front door, I am seized with a million emotions. I concentrate on the task at hand and try not to break down and make a scene. This is my friend's big day, after all.
I waltz over with mustered confidence, put my present down on the growing pile, and continue to the dessert table. It's only then that I realize the chatter has died down. I receive a few pity glances and I suddenly want to escape. I don't want the attention to turn to me at my friend's joyous occasion.
The hostess, another dear friend, catches my arm in the kitchen and pulls me into a soft hug. Tears start to form and I accept the inevitable.
Its all I can do to hold back the tears long enough to make it out to my car. I sit in the driver's seat and wonder how it's possible to feel a physical ache in my empty arms.
I need to be by my Molly.
I make the short drive to the cemetery and try to see through my blurred vision. Tears fall freely as I park and make my way to my sweet baby's resting place.
My heart swells at the tender words written on her stone,
Our sweet baby
Molly Faith Shawcroft
Nov 13 2012 - Nov 22 2012
Families are Forever
I stand there weeping and again marvel at my body's capacity to feel physical pain when it should be only emotional. The grass is wet and fresh from recent rainfall, but I drop to the ground anyway. I sit there curled up next to my baby's grave for a long time. I tenderly finger the writing etched on her stone and think about what it was like to touch her skin the same way.
Oh my sweet baby. Oh my heart.
Deep breath.
Getting up, my legs feel numb and shaky. I walk past the other infant graves and get into my car.
First shower, done.
Oh my dear Krista. I can only imagine Molly wanted to reach out to you as you are reaching out to her. My heart aches with you.
ReplyDeleteIt is so hard to see my own daughter go through this. I was hoping none of you kids would have to experience the total devestation and intense pain of losing a child. It's amazing when you lose a baby how your arms can physically ache. Thanks for putting it into words. Love you so much.
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