I walked into what would have been Paxton’s nursery this afternoon. The room used to be filled with Paxton’s things. Even though I wasn’t that far along, we were blessed to already have a crib, a changing table, and other little things. We had books out ready to read to him. We had onesies and blankets. I started buying diapers with every grocery trip. As I sat on the closet floor to put some stuff away, I looked around the room. I was going to bring him home to this room. He was going to be lying on a blanket while I kissed his cheeks. I was going to rock him to sleep in this room. I was going to spend countess hours in this room feeding him, holding him, and loving him. Now, I avoid this room. It’s not like he was ever in here. He never wore these clothes or spit up on these cloths. He didn’t crawl around on this floor or sleep in this room. The blankets don’t smell like him, but I desperately wish they did.
I didn’t expect to get so emotional today. I sat in the closet and cried as I put Paxton’s birth certificate into our important documents. Stamped across the government paper that symbolizes Paxton’s birth, the moment that changed my entire life, are the words INFANT DEATH. Maybe that’s what set me off. I don’t know.
Evan and I were leaving the hospital after Paxton died and I turned to Evan and asked “What do we do? I literally don’t even know what to do. How do we do this? How do I leave?” I was about to leave my son’s lifeless body to continue living my life. What did I do before this? I remember walking back to the Ronald McDonald House in KC hand in hand with the father of my child thinking the whole time “What do we do?”.
We had only slept a few hours the night before, so we tried to sleep. Both of us were in so much physical pain that it made sleeping impossible. My head was going to burst, my eyes were burning, and I kept thinking about Paxton’s blue body. The image wouldn’t leave my mind. I knew that Paxton was free of that horrid body and I tried to remember that truth. God promised to deliver us and He did. Actually, He’s still delivering us. One day, I know that our suffering will end. I imagine that our suffering won’t end until we unite with Paxton in heaven. That’s the reality of living apart from God.
How does one go through something like this and not rely on the promises of our heavenly Father? The pain is unbearable without God’s word. To know that I will one day be able to hold my sweet boy is the only thing that comforts me.
My soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; so I say, “My endurance has perished; so has my hope from the Lord.” …My soul continually remembers it and is bowed down within me. But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. “The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.” –Lamentations 3:17-18, 20-24
One thought on “The room I avoid.”
Molly, I hate to see you and Evan go through such pain. Know that we are praying for you and that your story is helping others mommy’s cope with similar loss. ❤️❤️❤️