In Loving Memory of Clayton

In Loving Memory of Clayton-

The mention of my child’s name may bring tears to my eyes, but it never fails to bring music to my ears. If you really are my friend, please don’t keep me from hearing this beautiful music: It soothes my broken heart and fills my soul with love.



Wednesday, October 26, 2011

October is infant loss month-

So as October is drawing to end, I am finding myself healing wonderfully. I sometime can't believe how well were doing and its only been 4 months since Clayton went to heaven. I never thought I would have made it this far, but then i am reminded that, yes i would have, Clatyon wanted that for us. To be ok. So with that, October is infant loss month, so I thought I'd share a beautiful article sent to me by another mother, who also lost her son, to Myotubular Myopathy. It's the best way I can explain how it feels to be a mother of a baby in heaven. Some of you will never know what its like (thank God for that) but here is just a glimpse of what its like, at least on some days!

Miss you so very much Clayton Michael-

The heartbreak of infant loss

By Laura Schubert

Infant loss is nature's cruelest practical joke. It's investing all of the required time and effort into pregnancy, only to be robbed of the result. It's cradling a body that grew within your own and trying to reconcile the cold, lifeless form in your arms with your memory of the baby who turned double flips in your womb.
It's worrying that you'll forget what your child looked like and snapping an album's worth of photos that no one will ever ask to see. It's sobbing so hard you can't breathe and wondering if it's possible to cry yourself to death.
Infant loss is handing off a Moses basket to the nurse who's drawn the unfortunate duty of delivering your pride and joy to the morgue and walking out of a hospital with empty arms.
It's boxing up brand new baby clothes and buying a 24-inch casket. It's sifting through sympathy cards, willing your foolish body to stop lactating, clutching your baby's blanket to your chest in hopes of soothing the piercing ache in your heart.
It's resisting the urge to smack the clueless individuals who compare your situation to the death of their dog or who tell you you'll have another baby, as if children are somehow replaceable.
Infant loss is explaining to your 7-year-old that sometimes babies die and being stumped into silence when she asks you why. It's watching other families live out your happy ending and fighting a fresh round of grief with every milestone you miss.
It's being shut out of play groups for perpetuity. It's skipping social events with expectant and newly minted mothers because, as a walking worst-case scenario, you don't want to put a damper on the party.
It's listening to other women gripe about motherhood and realizing that you no longer relate to their petty parental complaints because, frankly, when you've buried a baby, a sleepless night with a vomiting toddler sounds something like a gift.
Infant loss is pruning from your life the friends and relatives who ignore or minimize your loss. It's recognizing that, while they may not mean to be hurtful, the fact that they don't know any better doesn't make their utter lack of empathy one whit easier to bear.
My baby girl would have been 5 years old this month. I don't know what she'd look like, what her favorite food would be. I've never had the privilege of tucking her into bed, taking her to the zoo or kissing her boo-boos. I will never watch her graduate or walk down the aisle.
Infant loss is more than an empty cradle. It's a life sentence.

XOXO- 

1 comment:

  1. Love you more than you will ever know. I say a pray for all of you everyday and hope you find the peace and comfort to get you through your struggles.

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