Since the death of my two-month old son, I rely on many tangible and intangible ways to see and feel him. I meditate almost daily, read books to him and write in a journal appropriately named Dear Wyatt. I wear a necklace with his name pounded into it vertically; it’s rather fitted and is something I wear nearly everyday. A pair of amethyst earrings, his birth stone, don my lobes. While I blog, I position a 5X8 photo of him towards me. Some days the jewelry, candles, blankets, cards, journals, photos and videos comfort me. Tears well up and that’s not a bad thing. Other days I’m angry and want to throw every single piece given to me out of love, right through my living room wall. But last week’s gift, I accepted with my entire heart.
Wyatt has a star. My childhood friend, Camilla, surprised me with a form letter explaining what it means to be a part of the International Star Registry. She had purchased Wyatt a star. My little boy was now sealed in the sky. We both cried as we looked over the words and traced the constellation where his star lays.
Both the certificate and constellation map were on the large side…kind of um, tacky big is more like it. I wasn’t sure where they would go, but his nursery eventually settled on my heart as their hanging home. Now, Wyatt’s nursery has been going through a transition of its own, honestly. At first, the door was closed and we would throw anything and everything in there without looking. A huge heap of crap started to accumulate. Then, we opened the door and started to use the closet; we even picked up a little. Eventually, I moved some of my diet and self-help books onto his book shelf, which we now share. Finally, last week I sorted through my scrapbooking hobby and placed all of it in his closet, right near all his clothes. Sharing space is inspiring us to consider Wyatt’s nursery as more of a sitting room or rather, a den. A place where his memory is honored and where our living space can spread. I envision myself writing in his journal usually reserved for the kitchen ice cream table and I can picture Brian sitting and watching his favorite Gold Rush series. Maybe two chairs, maybe a love seat, I don’t know. But we want his star certificate and map hanging in there with us, too.
I took some time out to browse through Aaron Brothers, as the frames they arrived in were cheapy-gold-flimsy. After some deep browsing, I liked the white frames. Once I placed his certificate against one in particular, I felt a positive energy and the pretty and sturdy set of frames came home with me. They were going to look great, I could feel it. When my hubby came home, we sat on the floor near the crib and started to disassemble the gaudy frames and transfer over his certificate and constellation map into the new matching frames.
We looked at each other and we read over his name in writing, Wyatt Harris Smith. What a beautiful name. What a strong name. It makes me so sad that I will not get to use that name again; never get to state it in public because my little boy is being naughty, or have the chance to write out his name on a school registration form. Only here is it stated firmly in the sky, his tiny star.
This was hard.
I’m glad Brian wanted to do this with me, because we don’t always express our grief in the same way, so I am grateful for him and his support. I allowed myself a lot of time to fulfill this healing act, as in, a full day. The shopping part was relatively easy, though I was extremely particular of the color, width and design of the two frames. But that step maybe only took an hour. It’s the part when I got home and placed the frames on the floor in his room that leapt over minutes and settled into hours. I slumped onto the shaggy rug and cried big heaving sobs for my son. Once exhausted, I stumbled into my bedroom where I could clutch onto one of his baby blankets and cried into it, mumbling I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby, I couldn’t save you, over and over. My go-to phrase when I’m in the depths of my sorrow. It was sad, I was sad. Why was I hanging up memorial pictures and not footprints and handprint pictures? Getting through these moments is not easy, but at some point I mentally tell myself this feeling will not last forever, the crying will eventually ease up, just wait it out. And the feeling didn’t last forever, and the crying did ease up and I did wait it out.
I took a droid pic of my just finished sobbing face to see if I looked as terrible as I felt. We matched. The face of grief is not pretty, but it is mine and it is for me and how I feel for my son is real and honest and that is for me, too.
But after all of that, I felt better…so, let me timidly return to his beautiful frames. They are slightly askew from one another and centered in between two shuttered windows. I am impressed by how nicely they stand out against the blue-gray wall. It makes me smile when I look in his nursery and see them. Once we get the sitting situation figured out, we will all be able to hang out together, as a family.