Dear H
Your last day on Earth, we spent together as a family of four. You and your brother had a mild tummy bug, so we turned on Christmas movies. I sat beside you and cuddled you in the left chair in the living room, the chairs we bought to fit two, so we could cuddle with you and your brother right beside us. Anytime I got up from the chair, you would grab my arm and say “Mommy, sit with me.” So I did. I laughed, flopped back down, and kissed your soft hair.
Now I have a lock of that same hair upstairs, tucked away in my jewelry box in my closet. What in the world.
You and your big brother were happy to lay around that day. You seemed tired but we had been up some the night before so I expected it. You and your brother acted the same way you always act when you came down with a cold or virus or anything — sleepy, clingy, a little feverish. I texted my family that “we got attacked by stomach bug today” and then reassured them that it was already slowing down.
Your doctor says there was nothing that could have been done. Even if we had taken you in at the first sign, it (we assume infection) was moving through your body too fast. Even if we had taken you in, they most likely would have sent us home. I want this to be true for my selfish sake but it also makes me angry. Your sweet, chubby, healthy little body had no chance. There were no signs. Oh Henry, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my little buddy. If there had only been more signs.
You were my little shadow. With our family of four, your big brother preferred your dad but I was always your favorite. You liked for me to be the one to lay down with you until you fell asleep. You always chose to come snuggle with me in the morning, no matter how early it was. You would ask most nights “Is tomorrow a stay at home with Mommy day?”
I walk through the house and see you everywhere. I look for you at the top of the stairs, where you used to stand and smile down at me before running down them and climbing in the chair with me. I look for you at the doorway to your big brother’s room, where you used to find me after you were supposed to be asleep. “Mommy, can you please sleep with me?” I can still hear your voice asking me that, like you asked me so many times. I try to be grateful for each time I said yes, and held your hand, and walked you back to your bed, where you hopped up and made room for me.
I am undone by one of your socks, your shoes, your clothes, your favorite books. I am totally undone, everyday, over and over again.
I keep remembering when we found you, not breathing, in your little bed, just 20 minutes after I laid down with you and snuck out after you were asleep. In that time (just twenty minutes, how can you lose everything in twenty minutes), I talked to your dad, went downstairs and “put the house to bed” as we said. I was coming back to sleep with you to make sure your tummy bug didn’t bother you that night. Your big brother was already feeling better. I thought you were just a few hours behind.
I keep seeing your face when I rolled you over. There was no “Henry” there. I knew your face better than anyone. I knew all your faces, your moods, your jokes, your laughs. I knew each eyelash, the curves of your cheeks, your tiny perfect lips, the dark eyebrows that you got from me. I knew right then that you were gone, and I have been reeling ever since.
I screamed for your dad and called 911. He ran to get our ER doctor neighbor, who ran in looking terrified. I had brought you down to the kitchen to try to start CPR as the 911 operator talked to me through the fog. There was screaming in my head, alarm bells, I couldn’t think. I told myself it would be ok but my gut knew the truth. My heart knew.
I held on to your tiny, three-year-old foot as they did CPR and checked for pulses that weren’t there. You were on the kitchen rug. The same rug you spilled an entire bag of flour on… twice. The rug you wrestled and tickled your dad and brother on. The rug where sometimes we sat together, stirring and baking, because you would always ask “Can I make with you?” when you saw me cooking in the kitchen. “Stir gently,” I’d remind you, and you would proudly show me how little spilled over the sides. We’d smile at each other.
I’m ready to wake up now, I’m ready to wake up now. I’m ready to wake up and tell your dad about this terrible nightmare and have him hug me and say “No, no, Henry’s fine.”
You went through a phase when you were younger where I would be laying down with you and you’d ask “Can we cuddle together?” and you’d fall asleep, wrapped in my arms. You were happy, just completely happy in those hugs right before you fell asleep. I hope you felt all the love I had for you then, right then, and I hope you can still feel it somehow.
I genuinely wonder how I will survive this. How I will continue to live without you. The rest of my life seems so long now. The loss is profound. It’s as if someone cut my body in half and then tells me that I will live the rest of my life as half a person. While I am standing there, bleeding and dumbfounded.
It’s almost Christmas. You were so excited about that. And your birthday. “When’s my birthday?” you would pout after we left a little friend’s birthday party. Then you would light up when I told you it was “right after Christmas.”
You were born in February, and we stayed inside and snuggled while it snowed. I loved your eyes, your little face, how you wanted to nurse all the time. I loved watching you grow chubby, smiley. I loved your jokes, your dancing.
I tell myself that it will get better. I tell myself that healing is possible. But secretly, deep down, I just don’t see it. All I can see are all the days stretching out in front of me, filled with that feeling of regret, of wanting to turn back the clock. Mostly, I just miss you.
Leave a little room for hope, I try to remind myself in my brighter moments. Just a little room.
