I almost made it.

I almost made it through an entire day of work.  So damn close.

Today was my first full day back to work and I was so excited about it last night that I had a hard time sleeping.  I was excited to wake up, fix my hair, have purpose to my day, see people I love, and most of all work!  All things I did and all things I loved doing.  Work met me with peace.  Ted {and Sam} sent me the most beautiful sunflowers.  Sam’s Dad knows how I love yellow because it brightens my day.  I called Ted to thank him for the sunflowers and when I said it out loud, I pictured “son-flowers” in my mind.  Flowers from Sam, too.  Flowers for Sam.

I almost made it through an entire day of work until 3 PM rolled around.  Out of nowhere grief struck me in the face.  I was talking to a sweet secretary but I couldn’t focus on what she was saying.  I knew if I looked at her, I would start to cry.  As soon as she left our office, I did just that.  Thankfully, I was alone with my friend and co-worker, who I asked through tears if she thought I could go home.  She asked if I needed a hug and I replied yes and she hugged me with tears streaming down her face.

She called me a Strong Mama – but some days I  just don’t feel like it.

I woke up this morning determined to make it a happy day; and it was.  But somehow grief snuck up on me like an old friend and I had to run.  One more hour and the work day would have been over.  I would have made it.  Little steps, I keep reminding myself.  Grace.

For nine months, I pictured what my return to work after maternity leave would look like.  Joyous always crossed my mind.  I would get to share Sam in person, share pictures like a proud Mama, share stories of his birth and of the first precious twelve weeks of his life.  I would get to welcome ‘congratulations’ and praise and make sure I mentioned him in every conversation I could fit him in to.

While I am greeted with an overwhelming amount of love and support, I instead return with a body that’s recovered but a heart that might not ever be.  I don’t get to let my friends hold Sam and coo over him.  Watch them delight in his tiny nose and his sweet smile.  I have a picture of him on my desk that only my office gets to see.  People don’t ask about him or mention his name.  They mention it’s good to see me {and I’m thankful} but we don’t talk about my sweet baby.  I don’t welcome congratulations and praise but have to hear ‘I’m sorrys’ and ‘We’ve been thinking about you’.  I’m afraid to mention him in every conversation I could fit him in because I don’t want to make other people feel awkward.

But my counselor encourages me it’s okay to let other people feel awkward for awhile.  He reminded us that most people will grieve deeply for us for approximately a month but Ted and I are just entering our grief.  He says our hearts will always have a hole in them the shape of Sam and nothing or no one will ever be able to fill it; except Sam.  He said people will try {and I’m beyond thankful for the attempts} but it won’t bring my baby back.  He said in time, we will learn how to gracefully walk around it – but we will always know a hole is there.

I will always know Sam is missing from my life.  There will always be a hole in my heart.  At least it feels that way.

I’m his Mama and sometimes all I want to do is talk about Sam.  I want you to talk about Sam.  I want to hear his name.  See his name.  Know you’re thinking about him.  Don’t be afraid.  He’s mine.  I love him so deeply that I’ll never feel awkward if you mention him to me.  Just the opposite; my heart will shine.  I need to know you think of him too.

I almost made it today.  I am going to try again tomorrow.  I’m giving my best while feeling broken.  I’m trying to be strong.  I’m trying to be brave.  I almost made it.