Silence

As we settle into our new home, new things are slowly becoming familiar. The creak in the floor when you reach the top step upstairs, the sound of ice cubes making themselves in the freezer, the way the sunlight moves around the rooms. The length of time it now takes to get to the grocery store, the gym. We arrange furniture, hang pictures, paint walls. Feel grateful for the quieter location and the opportunity to sit in our own backyard.

It feels good to become comfortable, however there is one thing I can't get over. The silence. The empty rooms offer no solace to our grief. The obvious void of Caius' cries and laughter is painful. The space that holds all his stuff sits across the hallway from our room, and the fact that these items have made it here without him is heartbreaking. When we first walked through this house, he was with us and it was easy to envision the three of us living happily within these walls. Now as I decide how to organize and decorate the room that was to be his, I am torn between setting it up exactly as it was at our old home or in a totally different way. The thought of a possible future baby wearing Caius' little sleepers is both comforting and overwhelming. The idea of changing another baby on Caius' change table brings feelings of hope and sadness. My heart is caught between wanting to recreate my life with Caius as a way to experience complete happiness again and suffering from extreme feelings of guilt and betrayal. As I start to hang up the animal pictures I chose and arrange the books I bought for Caius when I was pregnant, I hesitate. I think about how excited I was to meet the little boy in my belly. The scenarios I created about us snuggled in bed reading stories and looking at the whales hanging on the walls come flooding back. The reality is that we never got to do those things. The silence taunts me; it forces me to realize this over and over again.

Moving forward in grief is a constant attempt at balancing conflicting emotions. Each moment of happiness is tinged with sadness. Each time I remember stroking Caius' forehead, running my fingers through his soft little hair, I feel both remorse and love. The silence reminds me that someone is missing but also that someone new may one day fill it. The silence represents an absence, but within this quiet also exists an intense amount of love. The photos of Caius that decorate our home represent a time of completeness and fullness. Silent reminders that total and all encompassing love truly exists. As Clint recently commented, Caius being such an awesome little boy is both a curse and a blessing- a curse because he left so much more to miss and a blessing because he brought us so much joy in his seven months. The silence too is a double edged sword. Sometimes it is a relief and other times a burden. Right now it is a burden. But I will continue to work through this, trying to fill the silence by sharing favorite moments and making the air thick with memories. And I will also remind myself that this journey is not to be rushed, and that with silence comes opportunity. So while Caius' little clothes are now set in a new closet and his bookcase sits under a new window, the matter of which sheets will decorate the crib does not need to be decided today. The silence will bring time to decide when the time is right.

Missing you so much buddy 💜

Chantal