Disassembling Sam’s Crib.

Today I was reminded there are no right and wrong choices when you’re grieving; it just is.  Christmas was a foggy day yesterday, theoretically and literally.  I awoke to a fog that never left our tiny southern Indiana town.  The weather was as confused as I was about the day, leaving a cloud over my home and my heart.

I woke up this morning and it had all disappeared.  It was a new day.  Yet again, we made it through the hell that Christmas has become for us as loss parents.  Today the sun is shining, my windows are open and fresh air is circulating through my home.

Goodbye, Christmas.  Hello, new year.

With new years bring new things.  I remember last year having so much hope for 2016.  I once again placed a confidence in the future; a new start – a new baby – a new beginning.

As this year ends, I find myself less hopeful for what might or might not happen and more realistic about what is.  I am married.  My baby died.  My second baby died.  I’ve been a bit lost and I feel no qualms about it whatsoever.  I’m surrounded by the most beautiful friends and family anyone could ask for.  My children are loved.  I adore my yoga practice.  I have six more years at my job.  I am alive.

I decided today was the day to take down Sam’s crib.  After discussing it with Ted, he agreed.  My wishful thinking at the end of 2015 did not come to fruition.  There is no baby to fill our home as this year closes.  There is no need for a crib.

I sat in Sam’s room and cried, and cried.  I held so much hope for his crib.  We chose it just for him.  I washed and rewashed his elephant sheets so that his perfect body had a perfectly clean place to sleep.  I so carefully tied and retied each knot in his bumper knowing I’d have to take it down upon his arrival but insisting it be perfect for him.

I fell to my knees and stared just as you see here.  Today is the last time I’ll see it put together unless and until we have more children.

I shared with Ted as time passes and there’s no child to fill its space, no Sam, it become a place to collect his things.  His most important things.  But not a baby.  And it hurts.


Together in tears, we cleared off his crib and untied the knots to his bumper.  We placed his bed in a bag to be stored with the rest of our baby things and screw by screw, disassembled a bed where Sam never slept and dreams have never been met.

I’ve said all along if this day were to come, we’d rebuild Sam’s bed in the room next door to his so it would never really be gone from our home; because crib or not, Sam is never really gone.

It’s odd to see emptiness in his room now but emptiness is not unknown to me.  Before we removed the crib I called Georgia’s Mama, Rachel and cried to her while she shared her experience of taking down Georgia’s crib.  “She never really slept there,” she told me, “She is everywhere.”

There is no plan for Sam’s room.  There just is.  It’s my place to be present with him and in life.  Sam isn’t confined to these four walls; Sam is everywhere.

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