Parents put up with a lot of heartache, just to get to moments of perfection. Keller was whiny this morning, for no particular reason, he just didn’t want to do anything. He likes to scream bloody murder when you put him in the tub or the shower and he doesn’t want to. It used to bother me, the deafening screams and shrieks, or the defiant attitude. The past two weeks have given me patience with this. I wish I had more of this with Blake. Though, I was infinitely more equipped to handle an infant the second time around, I still couldn’t tolerate the inexplicable crying. We’d go through the motions: it’s not time to eat, try a pacifier, nope. Oh, is it your diaper? Nope. Oh, do you want to be held? Standing up? For hours? Sometimes. Or, slung over my shoulder so you can get that gas bubble out? Almost every time. Those moments with Blake are over now, and I’m left with the memories of watching a football game, with him slung over my shoulder as I pace back and forth across our bedroom so Lindsey can spend some time with Keller who was getting a little jealous of the attention Blake received. Everything and anything that could distract him long enough in between feedings, that boy could eat.
I’m not good at being an infant’s father. I like, or need the interaction to know what I’m doing right. Infants cry. A lot. Which makes me feel like a failure after going through the motions and nothing works. I found out with Keller that I could sing songs and he’d smile as I moved his arms and legs to my out-of-tune melody. His favorite was Barbara Ann, by the Beach Boys, or Jan and Dean, or someone from that genre. I tried the same with Blake, nothing. Keller also loved Chuck Berry’s My Ding-a-Ling, which was my favorite growing up. Now that I’m old enough to know what the song is about, I’m aware of how inappropriate it is, but with an infant, you do whatever works. I tried that with Blake. Nothing. Painfully ironic now, his song was Last Kiss. Lindsey told me how morbid it was to sing something like that to him, I knew it, but it worked. He would smile, I’d move his arms and legs, and that giant toothless grin still lights up my heart and face thinking about it. These are the moments I want to remember. This made me feel like I was doing something right.
Most of my views on this are confused as anger. I’m not angry. I’m broken. A lot of people have told me
that Blake is now with “our Lord”, or he’s “in a better place”, or “he’s resting with angels”. That makes them feel better, I know, but part of me breaks a little more each time I hear it. I haven’t been right with God, or the church in over a decade. And what I’m offered is “he only takes the good ones from those that are strong enough to handle it”? Strength. It’s a mixture of distraction, denial, and determination. I’m determined to provide, love and care for Lindsey and Keller. My friends provide the distraction. The denial is slowly dissipating, and reality, its evil twin, creeps in when you least expect it. We didn’t and don’t need to prove how strong we are to God. Our son is gone. I held his lifeless body two weeks ago, pumping his chest, and giving him his last breath, until they took him from me. Blake left this world two weeks ago today. They brought him home to us last Wednesday. Our son is in a box, in ashes. His spirit is with us. That’s what I know.
I can’t describe how painful this is. There are moments of clarity that I rejoice in, feeling like I can do this. Whatever ‘this’ is. The wound is so fresh, I continue to fool myself into thinking I’m capable of flipping a witch and going back into work mode. Dad mode. Husband mode. There are a couple moments each day where I don’t think about all that’s transpired, maybe more of those moments will come, when it’s not the dominating thought. It’s hard to look, or hug, or kiss, or comfort Lindsey without thinking about it, without knowing how broken everything is. I see it, and I can’t fix it. Then there are moments where we can laugh, and embrace each other, and it feels....normal. That’s a shitty thing to say, but I can’t stand leaving the house, or watching her leave, or Keller, without wondering if that phone call is coming today. After all this, I’m waiting for “the other shoe to drop”. Life can’t be lived that way, but it’s still so fresh it creeps into my mind every single time one of us walks out the door.
Today is not a good day. I had the best run since the week before Blake passed, today. Had coffee for a few minutes afterwards and thought I can get through this Tuesday. Then something was triggered on the ride home. The image of Nanny patting him on the back as I ran into the house and that brief moment of relief completely overwhelmed me today. It’s been in my head all day. There’s constant reminders, and as that hour approaches of when the call came, I just run through every second of that day in my head. Hoping the hurt will be less each time I run through it. That’s how therapy is supposed to work. I remember Lindsey and I talked that morning about his (really, hers) outfit choice, the onsie that said “you make me happy when skies are gray”, it was a sunny day. That smile. Those pictures. I found one of him in that onsie. He was cremated in that onsie. It was his. Not a hand-me-down. His. Between that and Last Kiss, our boy lived a brief, yet joyous life. He was loved. Beyond measure. He’s missed. Every damn minute.
I know days will continue to pass. The wound will get a little smaller. Our baby boy will still be gone, but
never leave his sacred place in our hearts. I miss him. I miss him so damn much. The shrieks, screams and cries of Keller are a welcome relief, almost joyful, I just wish they were louder.
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