A Summer of Sam.

The air smells of Sam.

When my house is quiet, the hum of the airconditioner sounds like Sam.

Being inside and being outside feels unbearable.

We’re one week away until Sam turns two.

I’ve busied myself this month, ignoring the ever so present yet gentle, reminders that I am sad.

Not sad like last year.

Year one was all-consuming.

Two years later I’ve found I feel it more in my bones, in my soul, in my heart.

Two years have lessened the shock and allowed the realization that I will always be without Sam, I will always be a mother to a dead child, seep into my core.

Yet I carry on because I have to. Not necessarily because I want to; but we have to, we loss moms.

There’s no choice.

There’s no choice when your baby dies and there’s no choice in having to figure out how to live with grief.

It’s lonely when my house is so quiet so close to Sam’s birthday. No toddlers running around. No one to pick up after other than myself.

I remember this week, two years ago. I remember wishing my pregnancy would just be over because I hurt, physically. I was tired and my body wore the fact that I was 36 weeks pregnant. I wanted Sam out of my belly and in my arms.

And that’s what happened. But not how I wanted it. Not how I dreamed it to be. My physical pains were nothing compared to the heartache and heartbreak of losing our baby.

The summer, this week, next week – it all reminds me of two years ago when my life forever changed. A summer off work on maternity leave giving life for the first time to such raw emotions.

A summer where I sat inside, away from the sun and in my pajamas, crying. Allowing my mother to bathe me because I felt wounded from my c-section and broken heart. A summer where our friends continuously cooked us dinner for two months and dropped in to just tell me they loved Sam. A summer where everyone, it seemed, understood my heartache and understood our loss.

Much like his room now, we’re left with an emptiness I didn’t know existed.

I miss him.

I miss that summer of understanding.

A summer of Sam.

5 thoughts on “A Summer of Sam.

  1. My heart is heavy for you Abby & Ted! There is no loss like the loss of a child! There are not enough words to describe the physical pain and emptiness that you feel! Although you learn to ride the waves of heartache, the emptiness is still there! Be kind to yourself, discover your own path through this storm and know that your willingness to share your deepest feelings helps so many that are on this journey also! I pray for you each and every day! Know that I am always #thinkingofsam

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  2. You are so right, we carry on because we have to. So many people like to say time heals all wounds. Not when you lose a child. You never “heal” and time just takes the edge off. I’ll be thinking of you and Sam this coming week. Hugs momma 💕

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  3. I came across your blog after googling hypercoiled umbilical cord last night. It was my 3rd day back at work after delivering my 22 week old daughter who passed from a hypercoiled cord 8 weeks ago. I couldn’t sleep and had such a deep ache to wrap my mind around what happened. Today I kept thinking about this post, your precious Sam and the struggle that is infant loss and decided to write and say I’m sending you lots of love as you navigate this anniversary that’s just so unfair. Hugs from one mama to another. I’m so very sorry.

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    1. Oh Jessica, my heart aches and my heart breaks for you and the loss of your sweet little girl. The early months are the hardest by far. You’re in a war zone, Mama, and I hope you know we’re all alongside you. I hope that you can travel back to the beginning of my blog and find comfort from it there. I hope you know that I am always here for you to listen and to share tears. It’s such a hard road we lead now. You are never alone. Your girl is love by so many, especially me.

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