Redemption(60)

I laid my favorite outfit of his on top of my tummy, the way I’d done before he’d been born. I had an entire outfit on my bump…a little blue onesie with a bear on the chest and soft white pants to go over it. But it was the socks, they had little bears on each of the toes, that I loved so much. I fought like hell keeping those socks on Joshua’s feet, but every time he wiggled his toes, I’d giggled at the way the tiny bears moved. I set the outfit aside, unable to part with it and continued through the things in this container. It was all clothes, and while I hated to let them go, they were reminders of a past that threatened to destroy me.

My son wasn’t tied up in material things. Having those outfits wouldn’t bring him back, and getting rid of them wouldn’t push him away. He was in my heart and in my mind. My memories of the way he smiled, how he kicked his feet, and the bond we shared could never be taken from me…even if I didn’t deserve them.

In the next box, I’d uncovered a framed ultrasound image. The name and date stamped on the paper were covered by the mat. I set it aside with the outfit. There was no indication on the print of whether the baby was a boy or girl. I wrestled with putting the frame out in my room knowing I would be the only person who knew it wasn’t Annie and Brett’s child. It seemed deceptive, but in some other way, like it was honoring my child. Without making up my mind, I left it out and kept moving.

I tucked away the blanket we’d brought him home with from the hospital, but parted with everything else in the second box. The third was by far the hardest to sort. It contained the few knickknacks that had been in his room. The letters that spelled out his name on the wall, the picture of the three of us just after Matt had cut the cord, the small porcelain box that held the little silver brush and comb my mother had insisted he have, and the gown we’d bought to have him christened. I refused to allow myself to believe he’d gone to hell just because we hadn’t made it to the baptism that was to have been held days after his funeral.

I hated to put his name in the boxes I’d designated as things to donate, but in the end, they were reminders I didn’t need. When I was through, all that was left of my son’s existence was one outfit, the blanket, the ultrasound picture, the framed photo at his birth, the beautiful ornate gown, and the tiny white box. I’d opted to get rid of the brush and comb. I set the things aside and finished packing the rest of the room. One side of the space held things to go to our new house, while the other had two piles—one for donations and the other for storage.

I hadn’t anticipated how emotionally draining one room would be. I needed to keep moving, but I had to do something with the things I’d chosen to keep. With the mementos in hand, I made my way to the master bedroom, to start on that daunting task. It was the last room in the house to box up, and I was determined to finish it today. I found the rosary the priest had given me at the funeral and neatly placed it inside the porcelain box with the white christening gown he’d never worn. The weight of the lid held the box closed even though the contents were far too much for the space inside.

I tucked the treasures into a box and put them with the other things that would need to go to our new house. I refused to put them in storage and figured I could hide the box once we’d moved in. It seemed devious, but it was a part of me I couldn’t let go and couldn’t share. Dan wasn’t the snooping type, and I knew he’d never rummage through my things when we moved. I’d find a safe place to store it, but for now, it would remain buried amongst my belongings.



*

Dan’s house had been far easier to deal with than my own. He hadn’t wanted to do the packing alone, so together we embarked on the task at hand with me taking the rooms he didn’t need to make decisions on—the kitchen, living room, guest room, office. The only space I’d been adamant he had to do himself was his bedroom. I refused to be delegated that responsibility only to encounter something I wasn’t meant to see or didn’t want to. He acted as if it was a preposterous notion insisting he had nothing to hide, but I’d remained steadfast.

With each passing day, my stomach seemed to grow exponentially, even if it were just my imagination. I struggled to move, much less get up from the floor. Annie had come over to help us and laughed at me when I rolled over to my knees to push myself off the ground.

“Just wait. Your time is coming.” She was one of those women who hardly showed. If she wanted to, she could have convinced people she had just gained a couple pounds and hidden her pregnancy. I was not so fortunate.

I’d had to quit running which left my emotions untouched and my body feeling like I weighed a hundred extra pounds. I’d only gained twenty-two, but I didn’t carry it well. Dan swore it was all in my head, but I could see myself in the mirror. And it wasn’t in my head, it was in my belly. Annie and Dan thought my body dysmorphia was humorous…I didn’t see the same entertainment in my changing shape.

Her laughter filled the room. “What are you going to do when my pregnancies no longer consume your life, Lissa?”

I kept wrapping dishes in protective layers of paper and stacked them in the box between us. “Run like Forrest Gump.” She thought I was kidding, but I couldn’t wait to get back out on the road. Not only would it help my body, but it greatly affected my mood. Exercise was how I dealt with depression. Not being able to do much other than walk, which was becoming more difficult with water retention, had been a struggle.