I mean, I guess that's not new.
I came home from work today and glanced in your room. My body is learning I don't really need to go in there, but I looked anyway. And tonight it looked like you might be there. It was dark, except the Christmas lights that are above your bed. Oh my baby...
Tonight Linnaea is having a sleepover with me because her Mom and Dad are at the hospital where baby brother is being born. And honestly, it probably couldn't have happened if you were still here, but still...
She does help fill the emptiness, as does Elend. I'm so grateful to have them and all your brothers and sisters. It's not quite as quiet as it would otherwise be.
Today Ashley brought by your hand molds. I can almost feel your hand still in mine. I held your hand so many times over the years: at birth, when playing, trying to do your g-tube cares (you monkey, you always tried to "help"). I held your hand over and over and over again in the hospital while they put IVs in (so many IVs), drew labs, did echos, waited for surgery and then in post-op. I held your hand during procedures that they don't usually let parents in for. And for hours after you passed. Your hand in mine one last time at the mortuary. These are a gift I will treasure forever.
You know, if you measure time by days, I think I might be doing okay. Most of the time, I'm all right. I go to work. I can talk about you, sometimes even smile or laugh. But I still break down at least once a day, sometimes more. It's a physical ache, like someone is squeezing my heart, or my lungs don't want to breathe, but somehow, they keep on going. How do they do that when yours do not?
I read your death note and your discharge summary. I wondered if I missed something, and I felt like I should know all of it. I might have missed some of the tiny details, but no, it happened the way I remember. You held on as long as you could, and then gently slipped away. And frankly, I guess it really doesn't matter. You're still gone.
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