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.