Two years.
Some days it feels like it was just yesterday.
Other days it feels like it was a lifetime ago.
Some days the grief feels like it’s passing.
Other days it feels like too much to even think about, because the grief is overwhelming.
Two years.
Last night, Sarah and I went through Micah and Judah’s Memory Box. We pulled out their hospital blankets, read notes and cards from friends, family, random people who heard about our loss online, looked at horrible hospital photos of their tiny, dead bodies, looked at their birth, baptismal and death certificates, and remembered a few days that we wish had never happened.
And we cried and held each other.
I never really cried much before we lost the boys. Haven’t really cried a ton since that loss. And so when I cry, when I give in to the grief and let my mind wander back to the first moment the doctor told us that we would have to terminate the pregnancy (such harsh, clinical words), my tears transport me back to that night. Back to that morning when Micah and Judah were born, when we held their little bodies, when we kissed them, and prayed over them, and told them how much we loved them, and had them baptized, and felt them struggle for breath in our hands.
And as shitty as it was, I think it’s a good thing for me to remember. To always remember.
As we talked last night, the thing that I still find the hardest to deal with, the thing that still fucks with my mind like nothing I’ve ever dealt with before, is trying to understand that without the death of Micah and Judah, without the horrific loss we went through, we wouldn’t have had Caleb. If Micah and Judah had been born, there would be no Caleb. Caleb Elijah would not exist.
And as Caleb approaches turning 10 months old next Tuesday, I can’t imagine a day without him.
That, my friends, is hard to wrap my mind around.
And no, I don’t think it’s as easy as saying, “See! God had something GOOD in mind when God God let Micah and Judah die.” Please don’t say that to me.
As I was playing with Caleb last night before putting him to bed, I told him about Micah and Judah. I told him that he has two brothers, and that someday, somehow, I trust that he’ll get to meet them. And I know that as he gets older, we’ll find ways to tell him about them, to allow him to know their story, and how much we loved them, and how much we love him.
And so we move forward. Another year. Another year without Micah and Judah. My boys. My first two sons. They were the ones who opened my heart up in new and intense ways, they were the boys who taught me the experience of loving deeply and proudly as a father. They will always be in my heart and mind, and I will never forget them.
revdebmatt says
Oh, Adam! I had no idea! I was in my own medical and mental crisis at the time this was going on, and somehow missed it in the months afterwards. Micah and Judah will always be your first-born children, and like you said, the ones who taught you how to love fiercely and completely as a father, and for Sarah to become the embodiment of motherly love.
Tonight when I read your stories from 2 years ago, I noted that Micah and Judah were born at Kaiser Walnut Creek. And so was I: 37 years and 1 month ago. Just a little coincidence for what it’s worth. Peace be with you and Sarah and Caleb this day
Sarah says
O yes, our children who die before they full live in this world do live in our hearts and memories. Peace be with you – you were in my prayers as I celebrated my dad’s birthday today, too.
Mike Stavlund says
Jack Caputo pointed me to Derrida’s ideas on ‘the impossibility of mourning’. Namely, that if mourning succeeds, we end up forgetting. But if mourning does not succeed, we cannot move on. So we are stuck in this place of constant remembering and mourning, because we dare not forget and we must not move on. So kudos for your constant remembering, Adam, however painful it is. And I too honor Micah and Judah and their little brother Caleb as they help you mourn in their various ways.
anna says
sorry for ur loss. <3
Cara @ WhimsySmitten says
Oh my heart. No words to say except I’m sorry, and I’ll linger for a moment in gratitude for the eternal glory of heaven, for the absence of pain, for all three of your little ones.
Jlightofchristseattle says
Adam…I thought you should “meet” my friend Andrew. He and his wife lost a baby a few hours after he was born last year – and just today they are having another baby. Recently he wrote something like “its strange to think of how this new child wouldn’t have even existed if our first son had lived” and I remember you saying something similar. I thought you’d find resonance.
J says
oh, here is the link
http://www.andrewjbauman.com/