Past and Present

Today was unexpectedly emotional.  We have been building a Storytelling Room at our church in honor of Webb.  This summer we have checked in on the progress from time to time, but most of the building was done off site.  The room is to be a forest theme and feature baby animals found in a North Georgia forest : bears, rabbits, deer, trout, etc.  Zac and I were very involved in picking out the details....Webb's nickname was Bear, so we wanted twin bears; he loved balls, so we wanted one of the bears playing with a ball.  I picked out a Scripture verse to be painted in the horizon, which was to be painted on the wall.  And we wanted a painting of Webb sitting near the mountain and horizon.  It was fun to visualize, but I had no idea how it would all come together.  This morning, we dropped Bo and Whit off in the nursery and walked through Webb's room on the way to church service.  Zac got there a little before me, and when I walked in, it was all I could do not to hit my knees.  Our eyes met in a mixture of panic and disbelief.  The room was done.  The forest we had visualized was now a reality.  We stood in the middle of it, crying and crying and crying.  People and their children were walking through, having fun looking at the animals....they must have thought we were crazy.  We were just not prepared.  There were twin baby bears, one climbing a tree and one playing with a ball.  There were lifelike trees, a waterfall, and a pond with baby fish.  There was a beautiful sunset with the verse I picked out "Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven."  Matthew 18:4  painted in the sky.  And then, underneath the verse, underneath what looks like a horizon where Earth ends and Heaven begins, was a life size painting of my baby, so real, it literally took my breath away.  The painting was done from a picture taken of Webb 3 weeks before he died.  He was laughing his unique little laugh, showing the dimple on his right cheek.  I stood and looked at this life sized Webb and almost felt like he was right there: I could see his eight teeth, his messy red hair, his sparkling blue eyes.  I missed him more than I thought possible as I stood in that room 8 months to the day we were told he had a brain tumor.  It was almost more than I could take.  People were everywhere, so we left, both of us bawling, and sat in the church service.  I had tears streaming down my face almost the entire time.  I didn't know whether to stay put or run screaming.  I could not believe there was a room downstairs honoring my child.  How did that happen?  It shouldn't be there.  Webb should be with us, not drawn on a wall!  It is surreal.  It is heartbreaking.  I was simply not prepared for the emotions that seeing his room would bring.  It almost makes his death a little more permanent.  We are still so raw.  It just does not get easier.  It becomes more manageable as time marches on, but it does not get easier.  On Friday, I drove by the hospital where Webb died for the first time since I left the day after Christmas.  I could barely even look in its direction.  I had a vague flashback of that day - leaving the hospital without Webb, which was the strangest, most horrific feeling imaginable.  I remembered exactly what I was thinking that day: "How many times have I walked through Scottish Rite and passed someone who is walking out these doors for the last time without their child?"  I probably have - after all, there is no "secret exit" for parents who are leaving for the last time.  I remembered wanting to run back upstairs to the PICU and grab my baby.  I remembered shaking my head in disbelief, thinking, "Surely this isn't happening.  Surely I did not just say goodbye to my baby.  Surely I will see him again...."

I don't know if I can ever walk back in that hospital again.  Driving by it almost killed me.

So no, 8 months later, it has not gotten easier.  In ways, it is harder.  I miss him more than is even imaginable.  I feel sick without him.  We will survive, but these feelings will not go away, and that is what makes this grief so impossible.  It is forever a part of who we are, he is forever a part of who we were.  And sometimes who we are and who we were just don't match up quite right.